The New Struggle
by funnierinpylean
Summary: LA has changed, since Wolfram & Hart sent it to hell. Kate's found a dangerous new way of fighting demons, Buffy is building a Slayer Academy in the city, & Dawn is excited to begin her first year at UCLA. However, events are about to throw everything into disarray. Why are demons going missing? Why is everyone receiving strange visions? And what, just what is going on with Angel?
1. Prologue

**Hi everyone. This is a multi-part story that I've been working on for quite a while; I decided to whet all your tastes by publishing a preview; the prologue and the first part. I've spent quite a while planning the details of this story, and I'm excited to see where this is going. I don't plan on publishing the rest until I've finished (and I WILL finish) so keep this page bookmarked or follow the story to see what happens next.**

**The other reason I'm publishing is because I'm looking for betas. I don't know very many people in the Angel fandom - or what's remaining - so I thought I'd try and reach out here to see if anyone's interested in giving me feedback and wants to read the next part. My email address is hidingincanada at gmail dot com, if anyone's interested.**

**This takes place after the After The Fall comic run. The fic does require that you have finished watching AtS, but it doesn't require comic knowledge, since I explain everything that happens in the first chapter. You won't be lost, I promise.**

* * *

PARIS, FRANCE

It was a dream she had had many times before.

The elements were the same, every time – the handsome man who stood triumphantly in a field strewn with rotting corpses, the glowing blue thing who smiled as it drove a spear through the man's chest, and the angry wail that started in the distance and grew louder and closer, the blue warrior dancing and leaping in celebration of the destruction of a deadly foe, and Sophie would wake up with a stinging pain in her temples, her bedroom dark and still and silent.

These are the constants:

Sophie turns to her side and looks at her alarm clock, the red numbers telling her it is exactly 5 AM. She reaches across the sleeping figure of her husband and turns the alarm off, realizing that setting it for six was hopeless optimism. Quietly, she slips out of bed, and tip-toes across the room so as to not wake Guillaume. She pulls on her fuzzy blue bathrobe, walks down the hall (past Jean-Michel's bedroom) and enters the kitchen, where she makes the first coffee of the day.

She holds herself perfectly still, moving only to bring the mug to her lips, while she wills away the dull throbbing pain in her head. Details from the dream flash across her mind – the drops of blood rolling off the vampire's leather jacket or the long, blue hair of the warrior whipping through the air – and Sophie shudders, like someone has doused her with ice water. She shakes her head firmly, as if banishing the vestiges of the dream, and purposively stands up,. She opens the front door, finding today's copy of Le Monde on the doorstep. She pours herself another cup of coffee as she skims the headlines, reading an item on the latest embarrassing thing done by the Italian prime minister. The quiet is gradually broken as Paris awakens with Sophie; the dreamlike night giving way to the active, present morning. She hears the sound of the morning commuters, and sees the pinks and oranges of the sunrise peeking through the east-facing window. Guillaume enters the kitchen, eyes heavy with sleep, and pours the last of the coffee into his mug. He murmurs a greeting into Sophie's ear, places a friendly hand on her waist, and kisses her cheek. Sophie makes breakfast for herself and her husband. Half an hour later, she rouses a cranky Jean-Michel, and an hour after that, she drops off her son at school and continues to work, all thoughts devoted to the day ahead.

Today, it's different.

Sophie parks her car in her spot, checking her hair and make-up with a handheld mirror, and runs through the mental list of tasks she needs to complete before the first meeting of the day. She gets out of her car, a tasteful silver Miatta, and greets Christine, her receptionist, who has arrived at the same time she has. She hears her response but when she looks at Christine she can only see her mutilated corpse, the receptionist's body suspended by a rope attached to nothing; her feet swaying back and forth in a breeze which isn't there. She stares at the corpse's discolored face, the mouth frozen in an ghoulish silent scream, the eyes bulging out of their sockets. Then Sophie hears Christine asking her if she feels all right, and her receptionist is her receptionist again, pink and warm and very much alive. Sophie blinks once or twice and feels the nausea rock her stomach. Her mouth floods with saliva. Yes, yes, she responds, placing a steadying hand on Christine's shoulder. She smiles weakly, her eyes on the ground, unwilling to look directly at the girl. Just an upset stomach, she says. Better cancel the ten o'clock.

All day, Sophie is flooded with horrific images. The twisted and charred remains of her employees stare back at her when she gives out the day's assignments, and when she goes to the washroom, blood pours out of the faucets in place of water. She thinks she sees the man from her dream sitting in the coffee shop where she eats her lunch every day, but when she looks again, the seat is empty.

She goes to bed early that evening, leaving the task of helping Jean-Michel with his math homework to Guillaume. The dream comes again as it always does, but it has changed – it has become more vivid. She can clearly see warrior now, and can tell that it is a she, a tall, beautiful woman clad in reptilian green-gray armor, her blue hair dancing in the wind. Her foe isn't simply a man, he's a vampire - a powerful specimen, with a cruel smile. Sophie senses the warrior's determination, the purpose in her stance, and this time feels her savage pleasure as the enemy dissolves in a cloud of dust. She hears the wail as a terrible sort of music now, with clashing chords and pounding arrhythmic drumbeats, which grows louder and more frantic as the warrior dances in her happy triumph.

Sophie wakes in the middle of the night with a jerk, the t-shirt she wears to bed drenched in her sweat and clinging to her body. Guillaume shifts and yawns in his sleep.

War is coming, she thinks.


	2. Part 1 -- Worship Her

LOS ANGELES, CALIFORNIA

Only one major visible difference marked the post-post-apocalyptic Los Angeles from the city it had once been – an almost unbelievable amount of litter. Angel stared at an overturned garbage can, its contents spilling into the street, and realized that it had been like that for a solid week. No one had come to get rid of the broken bottles and empty soda cans that had spilled out across the alleyway.

What is it, exactly, about receiving salvation which makes humans so… untidy? Angel sighed, and kicked an empty Sprite can. It bounced off the curb, echoing loudly, and he watched it silently, hands shoved into the pockets of his long coat. He began to walk, head down, shoulders hunched. He made sure to keep to the shadows, to remain as unnoticeable as possible. Why he kept his rituals going, he wasn't quite sure - L.A. had literally never been safer - but every night, he found himself out here, wandering the streets, hoping to pick a fight with a demon or two. So far this week, he's stopped one mugging (culprit: human) and he helped one lady who locked her keys in her trunk. The things that go bump in the night? They seem to be doing a lot less bumping these days. Something about the entire city discovering the existence of demons and vampires had the supernatural population of Los Angeles spooked - they were emerging from the shadows less than the humans.

Speaking of, thought Angel. Where is everyone? It was three AM on a Saturday night - there should have been drunk pedestrians, stressed-out restaurant employees trying to get home, homeless people camped out on the side of the road... Angel grimaced. He never liked the crowds when they were there, but now that they're gone - now that Los Angeles has decided to take Salt Lake City's approach to embracing its nightlife - he misses the bustle. It's easier to be alone in a crowd, he's always found. Now, it's just him and his thoughts.

He stopped abruptly in front of an empty storefront, reading the graffiti sprayed in bright red paint across the boarded up windows.

"WORSHIP HER"

It was the fourth tag he had seen in the last week, all in different parts of the city, all with the same inscription. Angel reached into his pocket and took a picture of the tag with his phone. He wasn't sure if it was paranoia or just plain boredom that had him documenting it - he was a private citizen now, not a detective. And besides, it wasn't as if it was the only religiously-flavored piece of vandalism that Angel had come across in the last few months - the entire city was going through some kind of religious revival. Lorne had half his viewers spouting Madonna-inspired Kabbalah nonsense, and the fundamentalist churches of the city have had an upswell in their membership. Now that the city of LA has had a first-hand experience of hell, its residents have made the decision to explore their options, so to speak. But "worship her"? That was a little too close to Jasmine for Angel's tastes, and anything connected to her couldn't be good news.

Los Angeles had been to hell, and everything was different now. After Angel and his friends had destroyed the Circle of the Black Thorn, Wolfram & Hart had taken its revenge by plunging the entire metropolis into a hell dimension, and had transformed the city into a supernatural horror movie, replete with monstrous demons. Demon lords rose to power in every neighborhood of the city, and battled each other for control of the city. The collateral damage from these battles was immense. Most of the surviving humans (and quite a few of the more peaceful demons) found themselves enslaved by the monsters, and were put to work serving the needs of their new masters. A few remained free and fought back, aided by Angel, Spike, Lorne and Connor, but their situation was precarious - the rebels risked their lives every day, and by the end, their numbers had fallen drastically.

Eventually, Angel prevailed, and Wolfram & Hart admitted their defeat. After three months of living in hell, Wolfram & Hart reset the clock, bringing Los Angeles back to the moment before the city was plunged into the hell dimension - back to that moment in the alley. This time around, hell never came, the demon lords never rose, and there were never any mass casualties - but everyone still remembered the events of hell as if it had. It was all L.A. residents could talk about. Survivors had begun calling their ordeal "The Event".

Angel tucked his phone away, deciding he needed to get higher, he needed to see more. He began to scale the side of a tall building, fingers slotting easily into the minute spaces between cinderblocks, his feet scraping noiselessly against the surface as he runs up the wall, the whole performance an insult to gravity. He reached the roof and sat next to a chimney, staring at the starless sky. That was what he misses most about hell, he decided - the stars. Always day and always night plus less light pollution due to a non-existent electrical grid made for an unusually vivid nightscape. In hell, he found himself looking at constellations for the first time since he had taught Buffy how to locate Usra Major and Minor, back in Sunnydale. Now when he looked at the sky, all he could see was a foggy haze, a purple darkness that yielded no secrets. Everything was clear in hell - it was a world made for creatures like him. Everything narrowed down to purpose and ritual and duty; you were either good, or you were bad, and you played the game accordingly. There simply wasn't time to think about things too deeply - there were too many things to do, people to save, bad guys to fight. War was a blessing, for a warrior. Peacetime was the real challenge.

Angel looked over to where he knew the Hyperion stood, and he sighed. What was he still doing here, in LA? His friends were dead, his team scattered. He had lost Fred and Wes, and Gunn and Illyria has left him to travel the world - the Event had been hard on them, and they needed time to recover. All he had left was that empty old hotel - and if Buffy said yes, he would lose that too. If he did stay, who would he fight, now that the Big Bad was gone? He wasn't naive enough to think that he had won the war against Wolfram & Hart, but he certainly had won the battle. They had officially ceased operations on this dimension, although who knows in how many other ones they were active. Wouldn't his services be better appreciated somewhere else? Cleveland was supposed to be sporting one mother of a hellmouth, these days. Maybe the slayers could use his help over there.

Even thinking these thoughts out loud seemed like a betrayal. LA might not have needed Angel, at least, not as much as it needed him in the past, but the city certainly wanted him. He was a celebrity, on par with Tom Cruise, or Christian Bale. His reluctance to come out of the shadows and engage with his adoring fans made him more popular, not less. There were campaigns to have Angel elected as mayor, and street vendors were making mint off of laminated posters of Angel's speech to the people of LA, right before his epic battle with the demon lords - one of Angel's top-five worst inspirational speeches ever, as far as he was concerned. But the attention just confused Angel even more. He was the city's warrior - he wasn't cut out to become the city's mascot.

Half an hour later, Angel stood in front of his new building, which he had owned for slightly less than two months, and fished for his keys. It was a sedate, whitewashed affair, two stories and an attached garage, much less impressive to the eye than the Hyperion had ever been, but the rooms within were spacious and well-furnished. The nameplate on Angel's mailbox simply read "W.-P. Enterprises"; it was the only identifying feature on the building. Angel had become fanatical about preserving his anonymity. He almost never used the front door, preferring to instead use the basement passage to the sewers. He even kept the roof of his convertible up, these days – the Plymouth might receive fewer admirers this way, but it kept the paparazzi from following him as he drove the streets of Los Angeles.

It wasn't just a matter of avoiding celebrity; it was a business decision. Angel Investigations had struggled to be noticed, but W-P Enterprises was meant to be ignored. The success of Angel's new business venture relied on the absolute minimum of interest from the general public.

He entered and immediately noticed the folded note lying on the floor that someone had slipped under the door.

_Wyndham-Pryce Enterprises, huh? You're a predictable animal, Angel. You're not as off-the-grid as you thought you were._

_Meet me at Café Tremont on Valencia, tomorrow at 11 AM. Sorry – no more hiding your face from the good people of Los Angeles, if you want this job._

_That is, if you're still in the business of taking cases. This city needs you, my friend._

_-Kate_

_PS – Say hi to Connor for me._

He winced. Looked like he had a date.

* * *

Every goddamn time, thought Connor angrily. Why do I always let Rahul drag me to these places?

His roommate had disappeared into a private room with some girl, leaving Connor alone in a corner with an almost-flat beer. Of all the terrible parties Rahul had made him go to this summer, this might have been the worst one. Kanye West blared from a pair of overused speakers, the reverb rattling the windows of the living room of the frat house. Everywhere around him UCLA students were laughing and talking loudly over the music, the drunkest of them sloppily grinding against each other to the beat. Every so often couples would sneak out of the room and up the stairs, emerging half an hour later, looking sheepishly triumphant. Everyone knows each other, he thought. This is probably the first time they are seeing each other since May. He wondered what his friends at Stanford were doing right now, and again questioned his decision to take a year off from school.

Connor finished the remainder of his beer with one swig, and walked to the cooler to get another. It was going to be a long evening. He had lost the coin-toss and was the designated driver tonight, but he wondered if Rahul would really mind that much if he took off now and picked him up in the morning.

"Oh my god, are you Connor?" A girl with platinum blonde hair and a dark tan had materialized in front of the mini-fridge. And then there was this. This wouldn't happen if I was in Palo Alto right now, he thought, angrily.

"Um… yeah," said Connor, embarrassed.

"Holy shit, I friggin' love you!" she squealed, grabbing his arm. She pulled him into a group of girls, who were all wearing the same tight pink t-shirt, emblazoned with Greek letters. "Look who I found! Seriously you guys, did I not tell you that it was a good idea to come to this party?" She pushed him forward, displaying him as one would a prize-winning hog at a state farm.

"That can't be him, he's way too skinny."

"No, it definitely is. He rescued us from that icky yellow blobby-monster thing that took over Inglewood."

"No. Way. You got rescued by Connor Reilly? So jealous! I didn't get rescued by anyone! I died, it totally sucked."

Connor tried to back out of the room, abandoning all thoughts of another beer. Just get to the door and you're free, he thought. Screw Rahul, he can find his own ride home.

It wasn't going to happen.

Noticing what he was trying to do, the blonde tightened her grip on his arm, and pulled him close, wrapping her other arm around his waist. Her red nails dug into his skin. "Not so fast, mister. You are mine for the evening." She flashed him a brilliant white smile. "My name is Jenny, and these are some of the girls of Phi Delta." Connor gave a kind of grunt in response. Jenny introduced him to each of her friends.

"This is Kaylee, Sara, and Alicia."

"Can I hug him?" Kaylee stepped forward and tentatively wrapped her arms around his midsection. "Wow, you really are skinny! I mean, Teddy told me that he saw you punched a hole through a troll's head in Westlake, but he must have got that wrong. I mean, my boyfriend couldn't do that and he's like three times your size."

"People say a lot of things," Connor muttered. The girls had not heard him over the sound of their own excited conversation. The first few times this had happened, it had been incredible. But after a few months the novelty of being recognized in the street had worn off, and Connor was beginning to dread the inevitable poking and prodding that took place whenever he was accosted by fans. Alicia, the girl who had died, addressed Connor accusatorially.

"You know what? I don't think you're human, even though everyone says you're the normal one. I think you're a vampire like Spike is. Either that or you're, like, an alien or something."

Jenny put a hand on Connor's cheek, and stood very close to him. "Well, he's warm, so I don't think he's a vampire."

Sara giggled. "Then he's an alien. Who wants to check for tentacles?" She drunkenly ran her hands up and down his torso, feeling for extra parts.

"Okay, ladies," said Connor, thinking things had gone a little too far. "It's been nice, but I really have to get going." Before Kaylee's huge boyfriend shows up, he added silently.

It was a full half hour Connor was able to make his escape. The sorority sisters had insisted on giving him their phone numbers before they let him go, but instead of settling for an easily misplaced sheet of paper, they had insisted on a more permanent solution. Ignoring his objections, they each took a Sharpie and scrawled their names and numbers on his t-shirt. Jenny decided to make an even more memorable gesture, by writing her name in flowery letters directly on his stomach, just below his navel. She had stretched the moment out for maximum impact; she had placed the Sharpie in her mouth, grabbed his hips, and sunk to her knees in order to do the deed, eyes shining up at Connor the entire time. The display had attracted the attention of the entire room. The fraternity brothers, once alerted to Connor's presence, were even harder to escape from than Jenny and her friends. He was only allowed to leave after he agreed to arm-wrestle two seniors. (He let them win, which may have decreased their interest in him.)

Eight tequila shots later, a significantly more inebriated Connor stumbled out of the frat-house. Driving home, he realized, was out of the question, despite the promises he had made to his roommate. He could either stick around for Rahul to come out, or he could walk back to his apartment. Connor chose the latter, figuring that Rahul would probably like to spend the night, and began to walk across campus, ignoring the catcalls and jeers of students who seemed to think that the permanent marker covering his t-shirt and most of the exposed skin on his arms was something to laugh at. Maybe I'll take the sewers, he thought, disgusted.

What an utter waste of an evening it had been. If this had happened two months ago, he wouldn't have hesitated to spend some time with Jenny or Sara, no matter how irritating they may have been. After all, one of the less unpleasant side effects of celebrity was that women, at least the women of Los Angeles, liked him a lot more. Of course he had taken advantage of the extra attention, at first - after all, he was reeling from a break-up. He and Gwen had started seeing each other when L.A. was sent to hell, and he had fallen pretty hard for her. She, of course, broke his heart completely. Gwen had lost control of her powers in the hell dimension, and was willing to do almost anything to be able to touch humans again, without shocking them to death. She had sold out Connor and his allies to one of Connor's enemies, in the hopes that he would be able to help her with her problem. Connor survived, but just barely. In the end, it was Angel who undid the damage caused by Wolfram & Hart, it was Angel who reset the clock and gave back to Gwen control over her body. Connor and Gwen hadn't spoken since the Event - he didn't know if he ever wanted to see her again.

So yeah, Connor did go out with the women who accosted him on the street - at first, it had felt validating. But recently, the attention just seemed vulgar. He lifted his shirt and glanced at Jenny's upside-down signature, wondering how hard he would have to scrub to get the permanent marker off of him.

He was almost at the edge of campus when he thought heard the faint sound of a girl crying. It seemed to come from a patch of bushes next to what looked like a campus housing building. He walked closer to the sound, and could tell that she was trying very hard to stifle the sound of her voice, and that she probably did not want to be discovered. But she could be in real trouble, he thought. Despite himself, he kept going, until he could see a girl, around eighteen or nineteen years old, scrunched up in a little ball, her head buried in her knees to muffle the sound of her sobs. Her long brown hair fell forward, and she was hugging her knees tightly.

"Uh, hi," said Connor, crouching to her level. The girl, oblivious to everything except her own suffering just a few moments ago, was obviously startled at the sound of his voice, stood quickly, and wiped her eyes with the back of her hand.

"Hi," she replied in a small voice, looking embarrassed.

"I didn't mean to startle you, or intrude, or anything like that," began Connor, the color rising to his cheeks. "I thought I heard someone in trouble, and I was wondering if you were okay."

"Yeah, no, I'm fine!" the girl said, quickly, and gave him a watery, wavering, utterly non-convincing smile. "It's all, well, it's just a bit overwhelming, that's all."

Connor nodded. He remembered what it was like, the first week of college; overwhelming was a good word for it. That feeling of continuously being lost, like you were always missing out on some information which would make it easier, that everyone else was catching on to their new lives faster than you were… it had been disorienting. There were times at Stanford when Connor had wanted to steal a car and drive home, lock himself in his bedroom and do nothing but read comic books for a week, like he used to when he was eleven years old.

"The first week is always really chaotic. It gets better, I promise."

The girl tried to smile, but her face crumpled and she began to cry again, this time making no pretense of hiding her emotions.

"Hey, it's okay, don't worry about it." Connor looked around for something to give to her, and saw a roll of toilet paper on the ground, next to a tree that had been thoroughly TPed. He gave her a few clean squares, and she accepted them, gratefully.

"My name is Connor, by the way. Connor Reilly."

"I'm Dawn," she said. "I don't usually fall apart like this, but there was nowhere else, no private place anywhere, and I just kind of… snapped."

"Don't worry about it," repeated Connor. He had no idea what else to say.

"I thought college was going to be really fun, but I didn't expect it to be so stressful, you know?" Dawn took another bunch of paper from the roll and dabbed at her eyes. "I miss my family, and I haven't really made any friends yet, and I think my roommate already hates me."

"Yeah, they don't tell you how horrible the first year of college actually is," said Connor, almost apologetically.

"I just didn't expect the girls on my floor to be so… catty, you know? Like, they're totally unfriendly. And all of the guys just seem like huge douchebags. I'm beginning to think I should have just gone to Berkeley instead."

"Well, UCLA is a big school. All kinds of people go here, although, you're right, it does have an unusually high asshole rate."

"I'm sorry!" Dawn looked frantic. "I didn't mean to imply that you… I mean, I'm sure not everyone here is terrible," she finished lamely.

"No, it's ok. I'm not a UCLA student. I go to Stanford," said Connor. "I took some time off from school to do an internship in L.A., and I'm just here because there was this party. It, uh, didn't go so well, actually," said Connor, pointing to his ruined t-shirt.

She laughed. "Wow. You're really popular. There's like twenty phone numbers on there!"

"Yeah, and there are more underneath. I was basically attacked by the entire sorority."

She laughed again. Connor was happy to see that she had finally stopped crying. "So I should probably get back to my dorm. That's… that's kind of what I was trying to do when you found me. These buildings all look the same, and I'm completely lost."

"Well, let's try to find your dorm. What's the name?" It turned out that Dawn was on the complete wrong side of campus, and had gotten lost trying to meet a friend of hers from high school whom she hadn't seen in a few years. By the time they had reached her dorm, she seemed to be feeling fine, all traces of melancholy gone.

"It was nice to meet you, Dawn," said Connor, turning to her. "Maybe I'll see you around sometime."

"Yeah, that'd be good," she said. She ignored his outstretched hand, giving him a quick hug instead. She smiled – a genuine one this time – and disappeared into the building. Connor waited outside for a few minutes, and then left campus, this time for good.

He realized he was whistling as he walked home through the sewers, something he had never done before. It was too noisy of a habit for a hunter; the sound was amplified as it echoed eerily against the long stone corridor, giving ample warning to whatever dark things that lurked that prey was coming their way. But for once, Connor didn't worry about being careful. He could fight off whatever he met down here – in fact, he would relish a vigorous battle right about now. _Maybe tonight wasn't such a waste of time after all_, he thought, a slight smile on his face.

* * *

The prisoner sat motionless at the table. He hadn't said a word since he had been brought to the isolation cell. Officer Rebecca Alberts bit her lip, and resisted a sudden impulse to approach the cage. Her instructions were very clear on this matter at least; she was only to observe her charge, and was forbidden from interacting with him in any way. She stood as the first line of defense, in case their prisoner managed to escape. Alberts absently played with the wooden stake that she had been issued a month ago, upon her acceptance into the SID.

For the fourth time that night, Alberts found herself visually checking the restraints that the prisoner wore. She knew that he was wearing shackles, large medieval-looking things that had clanked ominously when Rodriguez had fastened them around the prisoner's ankles and wrists, and that these chains were fastened securely to the wall, to the table, to the chair. He had been unconscious when Rodriguez and Peters had brought him into the cell; he had looked peaceful, and strikingly human. She would have been tempted to take pity upon the prisoner, if she had not been on the raid which had captured him, and seen what he was capable of. If she had no intimate knowledge of the things that demons could do to human beings.

She heard a key turn in the lock, and the captain of the Supernatural Investigative Division walked into the observation room, holding several files and a travel coffee mug.

"Good morning, Officer."

"Morning, Captain."

"How's our friend been tonight? Giving you any trouble?

"Silent as a clam. Hasn't said a word since he woke up."

The captain took a long sip from her mug, and turned her gaze onto the man. He stared back, and spoke, for the first time.

"So, when do I get my lawyer?" Alberts started at the sound of his voice; given the size of the man, she expected something much more threatening sounding. In fact, his voice was rather tinny and small; it sounded unused.

"Actually, it won't work that way. We don't quite want anyone knowing you're here," said the captain, pleasantly. She took another long sip from her coffee.

The prisoner laughed. "Very Area 51. I think I want my phone call now."

"You don't get that, unfortunately."

"So what do I get?"

"Nothing."

The prisoner laughed again; this time, it sounded hollow and raw. Alberts could see his shoulders sag, slightly. "Glad to know where I stand, here," he said, his voice sounding thinner and reedier than before.

"Good. I'm glad you got that through your head early in the conversation. It's going to save us a lot of time, today."

"So what's next?" The prisoner's voice was low, and he appeared to be studying the floor.

"Another excellent question!" the captain said, approvingly. A slight smile played on her lips, one that didn't quite reach her eyes. "You're doing well, so far." She stood up and walked to the wall, punching a code into a keypad. With a loud click, the door to the jail cell unlocked, and the captain threw the metal doors to the cage wide open, and walked in. She sat down on the other side of the table, facing the prisoner, smiling amicably. "First of all, I think introductions are in order, don't you?

"You already know what I am. Who are you?"

"My name is Captain Kate Lockley, and I'm in charge of the Supernatural Investigative Division, the unit responsible for bringing you in."

"Why didn't you just kill me when you had the chance? Are you going to experiment on me, like they were doing in Sunnydale?"

The captain paused, making it look like she was seriously considering his question. "The Initiative? No, this isn't the military. This is the LAPD, and we don't really care about how you things work."

The prisoner snarled and threw himself at the captain, his face transformed into a leathery mask; his eyes yellow and beady, his fangs bared. However, the restraints were firmly in place, and the prisoner wasn't able to move more than a few inches. The captain, acting as if nothing had happened, took another sip of coffee.

Human once more, the prisoner sat back down and began to weep.

"I didn't mean to hurt that man, your friend. It was just self-defense," he said, through his sobs. His head was in his hands, and his shoulders were shaking. "Self-defense is allowed, right?"

The captain arched a delicate eyebrow, and glanced at Alberts. This, evidently, was unexpected. "Wow. Not too many of you try to beg, at this point. This is fairly pathetic."

"Yeah? What do the others do?" he asked, words coming out thick and sloppy through his tears. "Whatever they do, I'll do the opposite. I'm not _like_ the others."

The captain stared at the pitiful creature before her, an expression of absolute disgust on her face. When she spoke, her voice was oddly stilted. "No. You're worse. You don't even have the guts to take credit for almost killing a cop." The prisoner whimpered, and wiped his face with the back of his hand.

The captain spoke again, quietly. "So here's what's going to happen. You're going to tell me about yourself; you're going to tell me who you are, who sired you and when, how many of your kind you've made, and then you're going to tell me about all your associates, and where they hang out."

"And after that, you'll let me go?"

Captain Lockley smiled coldly. She was perfectly composed once again. "Sure. You can go ahead and think that, if you want to."

The prisoner was silent for a second. When he spoke, it was quietly; there was no hope in his voice. "Why should I tell you the truth, if you're just going to kill me?"

"Well, we have a few tricks up our sleeve."

Alberts recognized her cue; she walked to a side table and pulled out a small black wooden box. She placed it on the table and flipped the lid open, revealing a syringe and several vials containing clear liquid. She held the first one up, and gazed steadily at the prisoner. "This one is hydrochloric acid." She placed it back in the box and picked up a larger second bottle. "And this is holy water." Her hands were remarkably steady, and she was proud of herself for not wobbling on any of the words.

"Your choice is this: to cooperate, and receive the holy water – or refuse to talk, and get the hydrochloric acid. Oh, it will burn like a bitch, but it won't kill you. And we have an unlimited supply," said Lockley, her voice almost cheerful.

The vampire stared at the holy water and swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down. He looked up at Lockley, brown eyes catching blue, holding them for a beat. And then he spoke, his voice breaking.

"My name is Michael Winters, and I was turned in 1982."

* * *

Kate was ecstatic. Adrenaline pumped through her body, as she thought about the success of the last twelve hours. It had been three months of endless digging and questioning, three months with no usable results; nothing that would give them anything but isolated nests of junkie vampires, living off street kids from Skid Row. Last night's raid had been a fluke; it all came from a suspicious tip made to narcotics that had been intercepted early by the police chief. The follow-up has then secretly been reassigned to the SID, and Kate had pounced on the opportunity for the fresh lead. They found, sure enough, a former crack house that had been taken over by force, the previous human inhabitants drained and their carcasses rotting in the basement. The three vampires playing nest turned out to have massive amounts of angel powder hidden in the walls, a variant of mystical soma used almost exclusively by demons. In fact, SID recovery teams were _still_ extracting contraband from the house.

And the Gods were apparently smiling down on Kate; she seemed to have found the one vampire cowardly enough to give her all the information she needed to get a strong lead on Alexandre Dumais, the leader of the Dumais mafia, one of the most powerful demonic crime organizations in all of Los Angeles.

God bless Michael Winter.

Two burly police officers transferred Winters onto a stretcher, and wheeled him out. He was tranquilized, thanks to Officer Alberts – the SID found it easier to keep suspects under heavy sedation when not needed for questioning.

Kate turned to the young woman, who was throwing away her latex gloves and the syringes. Her hands were shaking, and her face was pale. "You did well, officer. Not bad for your first interrogation."

"Thank you, captain," said Alberts, offering a small smile.

Kate saw the hesitancy in her expression, and frowned. "He gave us valuable information, you know. What you're doing here is important." Sometimes the new recruits had a hard time adjusting to how things were done at the SID.

"Oh, I know that," said Alberts, hastily. "I just.. I just wonder..."

"What is it?."

Alberts drew a deep breath. She kept her eyes on the floor, refusing to look her superior officer in the eyes. "Are we really going to kill every suspect that comes through here? I just feel like that might be..."

"Be what, officer?"

"Unproductive," she said. "I've always thought you attract more flies with honey than with vinegar - I thought it was standard procedure to offer concessions to suspects who give us information. Ma'am."

Kate smiled, wearily. "And if said suspect can't be processed in the criminal justice system without serious questions being raised about what they are?"

"Even so," said Alberts, still not meeting Kate's eyes. "It seems... illegal, what we're doing. It seems... not right."

"It certainly is illegal, that's for sure."

Alberts' head shot up, and she stared at Kate. "Ma'am?"

"The law hasn't yet caught up to the reality that we have demons living in our midst, and therefore we operate outside the law." She shrugged. "It's an occupational hazard, when you're fighting monsters. But make no mistake about it, officer - what we are doing is right, and good. When we take Michael Winters out, that means one less blood-sucking vampire on the streets, and it means human lives will be saved. Remember, Rebecca. The SID's only mandate is to protect human lives. And we'll do it, by any means necessary."

"Yes ma'am," said Alberts. The officer looked at her captain, smiled, and left the room. Kate hoped that Alberts' doubts had been assuaged, as she walked back to her office, and poured herself a finger of Johnny Walker. She needed team unity; she absolutely couldn't afford an outbreak of moral panic, not now, not when they were so close to their first major win.

* * *

"What is that, a screwdriver?" Kate Lockley walked up to the bar where Angel was sitting.

"What? It tastes good," said Angel. He took the time to look at her, seeing a few new laughter lines, a new hairdo, a shiny badge clipped to one of her belt loops. She smiled fondly.

"Oh Angel," she said, shaking her head. "Didn't you know? Clear liquor is for rich women on diets."

"Well then someone get me to Jenny Craig's, because I've got ten pounds to drop before November," said Angel, not missing a beat.

"Jenny Craig." Kate raised her eyebrow.

"Oh, come on. I saw a commercial, one time." Kate said nothing, her eyebrow remained arched. "I watch TV, you know." She snorted, and takes a sip of her beer.

"What were you watching, The View?" This time is was Angel's turn to remain silent. He looked at his drink. If vampires could blush, he'd be blushing right now, he's pretty sure.

"It was, wasn't it. Oh my god."

"I like what Joy Behar has to say, okay. I respect her point of view."

Kate threw her head back and laughed and laughed, and Angel sat there awkwardly, waiting her to finish. He shifted in his seat. "Oh Angel," she finally said, wiping tears of mirth from her eyes with a napkin, "I'm glad I decided to look you up." She took a stool next to the one Angel was sitting on, and signaled to the bartender to bring her a beer.

"Yeah, about that," said Angel, uneasily. "How exactly did you find me?"

"Not that hard. I figured you weren't flying by anything connected to your name, but I know you. You're not the type to just pick a random handle - you'd go with something close to you, personally. So, if not you, then one of your late associates. And..." she shrugged. "From there, it was a cinch. Speaking of which, where are you getting the cash to start up a new business?"

"Uh, that's... that's classified. Sorry Kate," replied Angel, not quite meeting her eyes.

"Have it your way, I guess," said Kate. "And what's with the name, big guy? Wyndham-Pryce Enterprises. Not that hard to track you down, not with that handle."

"I named it after Wesley. I wanted to stay under cover, but... it felt like the tribute was more important."

There's a brief moment of silence. Kate drank her drink, and paused, like she was considering what she was going to say next. "Wesley. You know, I never liked the guy."

"And he never liked you."

Kate smiled. "But he was good at what he did, I have to respect that. And I know you were close."

"Like brothers." Angel found he couldn't continue. He blinked once or twice, and took another sip of his drink.

Kate put her hand on his shoulder, and pressed in. Doesn't matter that this was the first time in years that they've spoken - that they never used to touch like this when they were working together (and against each other) - it felt right. She kneaded his muscles, and doesn't look away.

Finally, Angel squeezed out a laugh. "This is stupid. You'd think I'd have gotten used to losing people, by now."

"Bullshit. This is new for you, Angel. You never had anything worth losing, before. Don't feel bad for feeling how you feel." Angel looked at her, skeptically. She shrugged. "All that self-help crap they made me go through, last time I was on the force. Taught me a few things."

"Well. Thanks for the advice, I guess."

"Just paying you back. You gave me a hell of a line when we last saw each other. What was it? 'If nothing we do matters, then all that matters is what we do.'" Angel looked at her, incredulous. She smiled. "Seriously, I'm thinking about getting that tattooed somewhere."

"I can't believe you still remember that."

"It was a quality moment, Angel. Top five. I'm surprised you don't remember it, to be honest. Can't lie, I'm feeling a little hurt right now."

They sat and bullshitted for almost an hour. It felt good, felt like it used to during late nights in Kate's office, poring over casefiles, ribbing each other over coffee. Angel was acutely aware of how long it has been since he has been able to talk to anyone like this, for any extended period of time. He hasn't had this since Fred and Wesley... since they passed. They talked about Hell, about what they saw, about what they fought. They bragged about their most gruesome, hard fought kills, and they talked about how strange the city feels now that things were back to normal, more or less. They talked about Connor, about what a great kid he was, and Angel stridently avoided letting Kate sense the doubts he had about his son, about Connor's new job, about whether or not Connor really was the normal, well-adjusted teenager he pretended to be. He found out that Connor hit on Kate, when he first met her. Angel laughed, but he felt a pinprick of irritation, and an old wound reminded him of its existence.

But when Angel tried to ask Kate about work, she was unusually closed-mouthed; she refused to give him any details.

"But you were reinstated, you are a detective again, correct?"

"Yep. Actually, I'm a Captain now. Captain Kate Lockley, at your service."

"Really? Wow," said Angel. He was silent for a moment, admiring her. "Good for you, Kate. I mean it."

"Thanks, Angel."

"Still, you can't tell me about _any_ cases you've got going? They can't all be 'classified', can they?"

"Actually, yes, they can."

"You can't even give me any details?"

"Technically, I'm breaking the rules by telling you that I even have any cases.."

Angel thought hard. "If that's the case, then you're probably working on something the rest of the police force doesn't know about, which means you're working the supernatural angle."

Kate grimaced, and finished off her beer. "You didn't hear it from me, kay?"

Angel stared at her. Looks like Kate didn't just get her job back, she got her dream job - she fought demons, and she got paid to do so. She tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "It just... feels good, to have this opportunity. It's good to know that someone in power is paying attention to the things that go bump in the night, you know?"

Angel smiled at her, and stretched, languidly. "So if you've got the demons and vampires beat, and if you're coming to me, I'm assuming you need my help on one of your top-secret cases," he says.

She rolled her eyes. "Gonna hold it over my head, Angel?"

He smiled. "Maybe."

She responded, seriously. "It's just... this has to be under the table. No one can know this information is coming from us - you're going to have to investigate this on your own time."

"So, if you've got a whole team of cops and detectives and muscle behind you, what do you need my help for?"

She frowned. "The thing is, I don't think we can do this, at least not as well as you can. And to be honest, this needs to be kept as quiet as possible."

Angel leaned forward, his interest piqued. "So where do you need the bodies buried?"

"Har Har. Don't worry, it's all above board. So to speak. We've been getting some disturbing info from our informants in various demon crime networks - seems that demons are going missing."

"Missing?"

"Disappearing. No one knows where. We've had the wife of an informant vanish, and no one knows why, she's not connected to anything."

"Is there any pattern to the disappearances?"

"No, and that's what's so strange about it. It doesn't matter how much they know, or who they are - we've heard of the rich and the poor going missing. I want to know if this is some kind of demon trafficking that could lead to human trafficking."

Angel thought about it. Could be a case, here. Would keep him busy. A least, it would get his mind off of Buffy and the Hyperion. "What do you need me to do?" he asked, making up his mind.

"Keep your feelers out there. Talk to people. It's been a while since you were a P.I., but I'm assuming you still know some demons who might know something. If you find out any information that can help us further, let me know, and I'll take it from there."

Angel nodded. "That I can do. Got any leads for me?

"Yeah." Kate reached into her purse and withdrew a slim manila folder. "That's everything we have so far. Names, species, dates, witnesses."

Angel took the folder. "Thanks, Kate. I'll do my best to help you out."

"Thanks, big guy."

* * *

Buffy chewed her bottom lip, and surveyed the options that lie before her. She could either wear the pink and red dress and look cute, or she could wear the pinstriped suit and look professional. Or maybe she could combine the two, and look... look like a hot mess. She groaned, sinking down onto the bed and covering her head in her hands.

Dawn sat down next to her, and stroked her back soothingly. "Calm down Buffy, it's just Angel," said Dawn, trying to sound as reassuring as possible.

Buffy burst into hysterical laughter. "Just Angel? Just Angel. Dawnie, you realize I haven't seen him in a year? And that the last time I saw him, I told him that my cookies weren't done baking? I mean, what does that even _mean_?"

Dawn winced. "Well, I'm sure he doesn't even remember. Besides, he's going to be thrilled to see you again. No matter how many completely non-understandable things you might have said. Last time."

"It wasn't my fault, you know. He caught me right after I ganked Caleb. I was high on endorphins! Endorphins make me talk crazy!" Buffy moaned and threw herself face-down onto the hotel bed. "I'm so screwed, Dawn," she said, her voice muffled.

"You're not screwed. He's probably more confused about things than you. He's Angel. He's always confused," said Dawn. She rubbed circles onto Buffy's back. "Hey, are you planning on seeing Spike while you're here?"

Buffy lifted her head. "I don't know. I haven't decided. The last time I saw him was even worse than the time I saw Angel. I... I told him I loved him, and then he exploded. That's just... crazy awkward."

"Well, whatever it was, it can't have been worse than what happened to me last night," said Dawn, grimly.

"Why, what happened?" asked Buffy. She sat up and looked at her sister.

"I met the cutest boy, and he found me crying in the bushes because I got lost. I'm pretty sure there was snot, like, all over my face. He must have thought I was coo coo for cocoa puffs crazy."

"Oh, that's nothing. You're going to be fine. I'm sure he just thought it was cute, you know?"

"Thanks, but ugh. No. It wasn't cute. It was seriously, pathetically lame." Dawn shook her head and grimaced. "He was so nice, too. He took the time to walk me to my dorm. He didn't even know where he was going, he isn't even a UCLA student. He spent an extra half hour on me, I felt so dumb."

Buffy laughed, and pinched Dawn's cheek. Dawn yelped. "Sweetie, I think that means he likes you. I'm surprised he didn't ask you out."

"Are you kidding? I would have ran out of there so fast, if I were him."

Buffy smiled at her little sister, and felt inexplicably sad. She wondered when Dawn would see in herself what everyone else saw in her - intelligence, confidence, and maturity. This last year spent in Scotland at Slayers HQ had turned her little sister into one hell of a woman; smart, strong, and very perceptive. She reached out and pinched her on the cheek again, this time less aggressively. Dawn batted her hand away and rolled her eyes.

"C'mon, let's pick you out an outfit, said Dawn," continuing to unpack her suitcase. "I'll let you borrow something of mine, if you want." Buffy groaned and flopped back down on the bed.

"Screw work, let's watch television. C'mere," she said, holding her arm out to her sister. Dawn smiled and joined Buffy on the bed. She turned on the television and was immediately transfixed by what she saw.

"Buffy, look," said Dawn, her voice hushed. Buffy sat up, and stared at the screen. They were watching some kind of daytime talk show. A busty blonde woman in a very tight pink dress sat on the couch; she appeared to have whiskers and cat ears. But that wasn't all; the host was bright green, had horns, and was wearing a purple silk suit. Dawn turned the volume up.

"... so Juniper, after your husband left you, you ended up gaining twenty pounds?"

The blonde woman (catwoman?) nodded. "Yes. Yes, that's true," she said.

"Honey, how is that even possible? I mean _look_ at you, girl!"

The studio audience broke out into applause.

"No, seriously, get up and do a twirl." Juniper obliged. Buffy and Dawn saw that she had a tail that peeked out from a hole in her dress. The audience applauded harder. Someone whistled. The green man stood up and joined in the appreciation. Juniper laughed and blushed. She did a little curtsy.

The green man continued. "Now, you're going to have to tell everyone who's listening how you managed to do that. Because seriously, you got dumped two months ago, and you're already back to having a slammin' bod. I mean, you could take your bad self to a red carpet, right now.

"Thank you, Lorne. Thanks. You know, I actually did do a gala event last Friday - I attended the premiere of my ex-husband's movie, _A Night to Remember_? Turns out I wasn't invited, but I went anyway, and boy, they were not happy with me."

"And I think we have some pictures of that event? Bruce? Can you throw those up there?"

The audience tittered as images of Juniper in a fancy red dress getting tackled by security were shown on screen.

Dawn flicked the television off, and turned to Buffy. "Uh... what... what was that?" she asked, slowly.

"Apparently, it was a demon with a talk show," said Buffy, evenly. She shook her head. "Holy moly, I knew things were going to be weird in L.A., but I didn't think they'd be _this_ weird."

* * *

"Can I open my eyes now?"

"Jeez, a little patience, please?"

"Well, I'm sorry, but I'm not too big on the surprises. Where exactly are you taking me?"

"You'll see."

Angel led Buffy into the hotel, holding the doors open for her while she gingerly stepped across the threshold, her hand covering her face.

"Just a little further… and okay, you can open them!"

Buffy lowered her hand and looked around, eagerly. "Its….. uh…" She turned to Angel, looking confused. "Where are we?"

"In a hotel. Actually, in my hotel, I own it. It's been the home of Angel Investigations for the past five years. Well, except for the last one." He looked at his feet as he spoke, feeling strangely bashful. He had imagined what it would be like to bring Buffy here - he hadn't ever thought it would be under these circumstances.

Buffy surveyed the room again, her eyes widening as she scanned the high ceiling of the lobby, the low-hanging chandelier, the lumpy but comfortable looking couches behind the reception desk, and the broad, winding staircase which gave a sense of the hotel's former grandeur. "Oh, wow," she said, in a hushed tone. Angel felt a small prick of delight. "You know, Willow told me how huge this place was, but I never…" she trailed off. "I'm sorry, I really should have come to visit you guys. Things were always just so busy in Sunnydale."

"Don't worry about it, Buffy. I'm just happy you're here right now," said Angel. "Cup of tea?"

"Actually, do you have any coffee? I'm kind of sick of tea," she said, sitting down at the reception desk. "All they do in England is drink that stuff."

"Yeah, I think we have a coffee maker lying around somewhere. Cordelia brought it." Angel went into the back office.

Buffy watched him from the entrance to the office, leaning on the door frame. "Can't believe she's actually gone."

"Yeah," said Angel. He rummaged through the upper cabinets above the sink, his back turned to her.

"When Xander heard, he went a bit crazy. I don't think I've ever seen him so upset. Not since Anya died."

Angel had almost forgotten about that part of Cordelia's life. "It's hard to believe that those two were ever actually a couple," he said, absently. He found an unopened packet of coffee grounds in the corner. It was a year old, but it had been vacuum-sealed. He decided that it was still good to use.

"It was hard to believe even when they were together," Buffy said. She moved closer to him. "How are you doing, Angel? I mean, with her death and all," she asked, gingerly.

Angel began to wash a mug he found on a lower shelf. It was dusty from lack of use. "It's been pretty rough," he replied after a slight pause, his voice strained. He wondered if he'd ever be able to tell her what it really felt like, knowing that Cordelia was gone. The fact that she wasn't dead just made it harder - somehow, she seemed even less accessible, on whatever higher plane she was on now.

"I know you two were close," she said.

"We were."

There was a moment of silence. Angel could sense her struggle over whether or not to pursue this line of questioning. He was grateful when she changed the subject.

"So you're, like, a celebrity now," she said, smiling.

Angel laughed. "Me? I'm nothing. Have you seen what Spike has been up to?"

"I've read the papers," said Buffy, dryly. "Spike's adventures in Hollywood have definitely caught our eye."

"So what did you hear about first, the quickie marriage to Britney Spears, or the fact that he destroyed an entire wing of the Ritz Carleton during a party?"

"Neither. The fist-fight he had with Russell Crowe at nightclub."

He switched the ancient coffee machine on. It began to emitting familiar raspy burbles – a sound he had not heard since Cordelia had had reign of this kitchen. "Right. That made headlines."

"The first time he came up on our scanners, we thought that they had made a mistake. But then he kept on showing up. We started taking bets on what he'd do next.

Angel laughed. "Yeah, he's been keeping himself busy, all right."

"And you haven't been."

Angel busied himself with putting dishes away. "Oh, I've been busy enough," he said, in what he hoped was a carefree sort of tone.

Buffy put her elbows on the countertop, and looked at Angel fondly. "You know, whenever your name comes up in the press, it's always someone who's wondering where the Savior of Los Angeles has gone to; we never hear about what you're actually doing."

"Well, I've been planning."

"Oh yeah? Planning for what?"

"This moment, actually," said Angel, sheepishly. He turned towards Buffy, and then turned back to the pile of dishes. He felt a warmth creep up over his neck, and he didn't quite know what to do with his hands.

"Uh... you're going to have to elaborate on that, Angel," said Buffy, after a moment.

Angel took a deep breath and looked at Buffy. "I've been meaning to ask you something, Buff. Feel free to say no, although I hope you'll hear me out on this."

"What is it?" she asked, slowly. She sounded nervous.

"It's this place," he said, rubbing the back of his neck. "I don't really have much of a use for the hotel anymore, so I'm trying to think of someone else who could get as much out of it as I did."

"Wait a minute…"

"What I'm trying to tell you, Buffy, is– "

"Oh my god, you're leaving L.A.," she said, suddenly. She looked at him with wide, panicked eyes.

"Uh, what?"

"What do you mean, you don't need the hotel anymore? Are you retiring?"

"No! No, I'm not going anywhere. That's not why I brought you here."

"Oh!" Buffy looked relieved. "Well, good! The only reason I'm letting Dawn go to UCLA in the first place is because I thought you'd be around to protect her if the going got gruesome. Trouble follows us Summers women wherever we go." She relaxed into the couch, folding her legs underneath her body. "So why are we here, big guy?"

Angel sat down on a stool that was behind the welcome desk. "There are seven floors in this hotel, and over a hundred rooms. When Angel Investigations was here, we used maybe ten percent of the building, at most. Most of the place sat empty, unused. And see, I was thinking that maybe there's a group of people out there who could use it more than I could."

Buffy nodded. "So what, you want to turn this into a homeless shelter or something?"

"No. Buffy, I want to give it to you." She laughed, but Angel did not join her.

"Oh my god, you're not kidding, are you?"

"'Fraid not."

Buffy stared at him as if she had never seen him before. She spoke slowly, as if speaking to a person hard of hearing. "Angel, I live in a castle. The offer is sweet, but I'm kind of set, housing-wise. Seriously, think about the shelter idea."

"Your organization needs a base in the United States, Buffy. Why not develop it here?"

Buffy abruptly stood, and addressed him tersely. "Look, I didn't come here to talk shop. In fact, I can't talk even if I wanted to talk. We've decided to not discuss strategic matters with anyone outside the leadership of the organization, and I'd be violating the trust of my partners if I did so."

"So you can't talk about Slayer stuff with anyone?" he asked, a pained expression on his face. "Not even with me?"

"It's not just you, Angel. I haven't even let Dawnie in on our decision-making process.. It's strictly a Scoobie gang-only level of confidentiality."

Angel smiled impishly. "Well, that's funny, because I spent an hour on the phone yesterday with Giles, and he told me quite a lot about your decision-making process. He was positively chatty, if you want to know the truth."

"He did _what_?" she shouted.

"Yeah, he told me pretty much everything I wanted to know about the Organization, about the twenty-six squadrons you have running all over the world, and how fast you're all working to get new slayers that turn up every single day into shape. And he told me about Cleveland."

Buffy continued as if she had not heard him. "I cannot believe that he told you! I made him pinky swear he wouldn't tell anyone! That includes you! You are among the people he was not supposed to tell!"

"Apparently, _some_ people still consider me to be a Scoobie," said Angel leaning back in his chair, his feet on the coffee table and his hands behind his head. He was enjoying this.

"Angel, you're great, and all, and I trust you, but you were the C.E.O. of Wolfram & Hart, which makes you not super trustworthy."

"So you trust me but don't trust me."

"Yep."

"… Wonderful."

"And there's also the fact that you sent L.A. to hell in May."

Am I ever going to live that one down? Angel thought. "I didn't send L.A. to hell: they did. Because of something I did. There's a clear difference!"

Buffy looked at him skeptically, her arms crossed.

"Whatever, I stopped an apocalypse," said Angel. "And no one got hurt! At least, not permanently."

Buffy sighed and sat back down on the couch. She rested her head on her hands, and looked at Angel with resignation. "It's complicated right now. We're complicated."

"We always are," said Angel. "Look, I get it. I don't blame you for not letting me in. But I hope that won't stop you from listening to what I have to say, or letting me help you, if you'll let me."

"Fine, Angel. I'll listen. What is it that you want to give us?"

Angel leaned forward, excitement shining on his face. "Your problem right now is that Slayers are turning up faster than you can teach them how to be superheroes. Giles didn't need to tell me this; Spike and I have known it for a while. Slayers have been showing up in L.A. for months now, a lot of them scared and confused, and most of them misinformed about who they are, and what their powers mean. A lot of them even come looking for a cure. Of course, most find the Organization and start training, but a good number of them find other people before they find us. Slayers are proving to be quite useful in this town. Discovering a young and isolated new Slayer, getting her to trust you, and then using her as your personal bodyguard, hit-woman, drug runner, even slave…." Angel shook his head. "Every few weeks we find another girl, or group of girls, being used by some demon crime family or another. We pass them on to the Organization, and… well, you know the rest."

"We try to fix them," said Buffy, her voice hard.

"And if it's bad for us in L.A.," continued Angel, not looking at Buffy, "I can't even imagine the scale of the problem that you and Giles are dealing with. The international human trafficking syndicates and drug cartels and terrorist organizations that you're competing with for recruits. And there are quite a few who will go with the bad guys willingly, because, let's face it, working for the Organization doesn't pay well. Or pay at all. You're in a war for recruits, and you're losing."

"I've heard this part of the story," Buffy said, irritated. "I'm pretty much a main character. How do you suppose we change the ending?"

"Your problem is that you're using the wrong model. You've broken free from the Watcher's Council, but you're still thinking about training Slayers the way that its always been done. Decentralized. Far away from the home base, with delegates doing the leg work. They may not be stuffy British guys any more, but your new squadrons don't do training and fighting nearly as well with hundreds of new slayers, instead of just one.

"You need division of labor. That's what I want to give you, Buffy. A place where you can train your Slayers, and get 'em turned out ready."

"You mean, you want to build a school?" asked Buffy. It was impossible for Angel to read her at the moment – he had no idea whether he was doing a good or bad job.

"Maybe. Yes. That's a good way of looking at it."

"Slayer Hogwarts."

"Sure." He had no idea what she was referring to, but felt it was best to play along.

"In L.A."

"Yes."

"Because it would probably make more sense to do that in the castle, in Scotland," Buffy said, smiling.

Angel shifted uncomfortably in his chair.

"Because of Hogwarts… you know, it's kind of like my castle…" Buffy began. Angel stared at her blankly. "Oh, never mind," Buffy muttered. "My point is, why L.A.? Why not Beijing, or Dubai?"

Angel grinned. "Because this is the single most enlightened city in the world when it comes to understanding the nature of the evil that threatens to destroy the world," he said, standing up and spreading his arms. "This city has been to hell and back, and is ready – no, it's itching to fight back. Los Angeles can become the Slayer Organization's first real outpost, Buff. Not just a place to put a school - it can become an actual anti-demonic center of activity. Slayers don't have to live in secrecy and fear, here. ."

Buffy stared at Angel. She stood up and began pacing the office. "I'd have to send someone here to manage the operation, to set up the school, get some funds in place to renovate..."

"Don't worry about renovation costs," said Angel, quickly. "I've got that covered. And I've been speaking with a couple wizarding construction contractors - they work magically fast. I've been told that they can build a secret subterranean complex complete with training rooms and panic rooms and even a dungeon or two within a few weeks."

Buffy stared at Angel. "Angel... where are you getting the money to do all of this?" asked Buffy, slowly. "Last I heard, you lost your job; you're not a CEO anymore."

"Never mind that," said Angel, roughly. "The funding is solid. If you want, I can have my money guy email you the financials."

"I think I'd like that," said Buffy. "I'll have Willow take a look at it." She sat down on the couch, staring straight ahead. "Whoa."

"Are you okay?" he asked.

"Yeah. I just... whoa. This is big."

"Well, anything to help you guys out, you know? And, well, if it helps restore my name with the Organization..." Angel trailed off, and looked at his feet.

"That might take a little more time," said Buffy, sharply. Then she smiled. "But I'm sure it can't hurt."

* * *

"... Our brother dearly departed, we commit his body to the ground; earth to earth; ashes to ashes; dust to dust."

Mayor Richard Douglass stared at the black coffin disappearing into the muddy ground, and thought about how hilariously unpredictable life was. The minister droned on, but Douglass barely heard him. Nor did he hear the widow's sobs, nor the pitter-pat of the rain on his umbrella. Life was unpredictable, and unfair. Morelatos and Douglass - they had survived hell together. They had shielded themselves from the darkness and the evil, and they had maintained their independence even with the demon lords threatening to break down their doors. They had even managed to maintain a government in exile, during the Event. Morelatos had fought hard. He should have been allowed to enjoy his post-war peace.

And to have to lose him to a heart attack? Who even knew that Morelatos was capable of succumbing to something as mundane as cardiac arrest? Oh, Douglass had listened to the explanations; apparently, Cryptos demons were as prone to heart disease as humans were - Morelatos' rich diet hadn't helped matters any, that was for sure. But he had survived for over two hundred years, couldn't he have held on just a little longer? Just long enough so that their plans for the post-apocalypse could be seen through?

Because the task ahead would be immense. Douglass now found himself at the helm of a traumatized city, one that now knew what lies beneath. It would take strong leadership and a firm resolve to chart a path forward. But assuaging his city's fears for the future would have been a lot easier with his friend and advisor by his side. His jaw clenched, involuntarily, and he was surprised to notice that he was blinking back tears.

The funeral party began to disperse, and Douglass supposed he should go and offer his condolences to Morelatos' wife. She was a tiny thing, as green in color as his friend had been, and had a spiky tail that stuck out from the bottom of her black pea coat. He felt vaguely guilty for being so annoyed at her whimpering - she had been as kind to him as Morelatos had been during the Event - after all, she had taken him into her home and had cooked for him nearly every day.

"Mary," he said, carefully grasping her hands (small, dainty things, with pointed claws in lieu of fingernails). "I am so sorry for your loss, we'll all miss him so much," he said, schooling his face into one of practiced sympathy. (It helped to be a politician, at times like these.)

"Thank you, Richard," she said in a wavering voice. She tried to smile at him. "It was so good of you to come. It means so much to our family."

"After all your family has done for me, it's the least I could do," said Douglass, injecting as much warmth as he could into his voice.

"It was nothing, dear. We saw it as our duty, to protect the mayor during a crisis," she said, eyes spilling over with a fresh set of tears.

"Even so, your husband saved my life, and I'll be forever grateful to you, Mary. If you need anything, don't hesitate to call the Mayor's office, I'll make sure that we'll help you out."

"Thank you, dear." She stood on her tip-toes (tip-claws?) and gave him a small kiss on his cheek. Richard smiled sadly at her, and walked over to his aide.

"Send a dozen flowers to the Morelatos' residence tonight, Thomas. Pick out something... appropriate."

"Yes sir."

"And find a way to postpone my 3 PM to tomorrow, I think I'm going to take a half day today."

"All right, sir."

Douglass stepped into his towncar, followed by his aide. He looked out the window, barely listening to Thomas as his aide argued with his chief of staff on the phone. His thoughts turned to that very first day of the Event, when all he could do was stand in front of Morelatos' window and stare at the hellish sky, lit with day and night. Words failed him for the first time in his life, that day, standing there - nothing he had ever seen in his time as a United States Marine had prepared him for hell on earth. He remembered how Morelatos had approached him, silently placing his scaly hand on his shoulder, telling him that the world had changed forever, and it was time to accept that Los Angeles would never be the same. He remembered how he cried then and there, cried for the first time since childhood, and how Morelatos never took that hand off his shoulder, how he looked at Douglass with sympathy, not pity.

He remembers the long conversations they had after that night, sitting in Morelatos's living room, listening to the screaming and the shots being fired outside the house. Wishful conversations, wistfully talking about what they might be able to do for Los Angeles after this was all over, never once expecting that it would end this way, that time would be erased and that hell would never have happened. Neither expected their city to survive unscathed, yet Los Angeles emerged from the rubble as if nothing had ever happened. The only damage left behind was psychological trauma, but Douglass was less worried about dealing with a frightened populace, now aware of the dangers lurking in the night. After all, Douglass knew, from his years in politics, that mass hysteria and paranoia could be usefully manipulated, that fear was an invaluable tool for a public servant who wanted to actually accomplish something while in office.

But he never thought he'd be doing this alone.

* * *

"Let me ask you something, boy." Spike knew he was drunk. He was more inebriated than he had been all day. But drunk or sober, he knew poor service, and poor service simply could not be excused. He grabbed the knot of the waiter's tie and pulled him down to eye level, putting on his best, most terrifying vamp-face. "In what dimension would you call this bilge a tequila sunrise?"

"Uh…"

"I ask, of course, because this tastes like rancid pus, and I asked for a bloody alcoholic beverage. _Not_ rancid pus." He sniffed the drink and made a face. "With no alcohol content."

"Sir, th-that's actually a double, like you specified," said the waiter, looking terrified.

"It is?" Spike released the waiter, and held the glass up to light, peering at it. "Oh, to hell with this mixed stuff, get me a bottle."

"Of tequila?"

"Yes, you idiot. Patron. Now. Or," Spike licked his tongue around a fang, "I'll drink you instead."

The waiter scampered off, and Spike burst out into laughter, his face going from leathery mask to human in an instant. "Never gets old, that trick. Good at parties." He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand, and looked at his female companion. Nice body, slightly mousy features, brown hair tied up in a high ponytail. She reminded him of Fred. He grinned at her, and downed the rest of the drink, opening his throat and letting the liquid fall down his gullet. "Now, where were we, love?"

She smiled at him indulgently. "I was hoping to ask you some questions about the line of cologne you're launching this month."

"Oh right, that." He remembered going to one meeting last month, a meeting that Lorne had begged him to attend. He had walked into the room, and five well-dressed Frenchmen had stood up and applauded. One asked him to do a twirl, which he had refused to do. He had then been given a pitch, of which he had only heard the (absurdly high) commission being quoted at him, and then there had been an awful lot of papers to sign. He vaguely remembers shagging the secretary after the meeting adjourned.

"It's an _exciting_ concept," she said, beaming at him.

"It is?"

"Oh yes. I've been covering the male scent market for years, and there's never ever been this kind of buzz surrounding a new release before. Even the name is unusual. It's usually something like Essence or Strength or Musk. But you decided to go with _Spike_."

"Yeah, I did," he said, nodding. "That was all my decision, by the way." (It wasn't. Lorne had asked him if he had a preference for a name, and Spike had suggested _Twenty-Thousand_, which was the signing bonus he was getting, just for letting them put his face on a bottle. Lorne had said no.)

"It's just genius."

"Yeah, it is!" Spike felt a pinprick of pride cut through his alcohol-induced haze. It was a good name, wasn't it? _Spike_. Manly. Distinguished. Thousands of young idiots all over the country would be wearing it, trying to smell like him. "Spike is a great name. I've always liked it. I picked it, after all. Used to be called William. Rather boring."

The reporter leaned in conspiratorially, and spoke in a low, excited voice. Spike found himself leaning in to meet her. "This scent has captured the imagination of the entire industry. I want to know the real story, directly from you."

Spike swallowed. "Uh, okay."

"I want to know about the creative process. What makes this scent your own? What can you tell me about what it says about you?"

If the Powers ever allowed him to exit this interminable interview, he would kill Lorne. Lorne had promised him that she would only ask questions that he could answer. Lorne had promised him that really, all that was required of him was an appearance. Lorne was apparently a lying bastard.

"Its… well, it smells like me? I guess? I've got a pretty good sense of smell, and…" Spike was beginning to realize that he had never actually smelled the stupid thing; that he had no idea what the cologne, supposedly based off of his own unique pheromone composition (something the little Frenchman had told him) was actually like. Time to bullshit. In earnest. "You know, love, so many of these namby-pamby colognes these days, with their florals, and whatever, it makes me sick. Men don't smell like that, men shouldn't smell like that. Not like fresh laundry or a baby's breath or whatever the ponces of the world are soaking themselves in right now. Men should smell manly. Spike smells like motor oil and leather jackets. It smells like charcoal and whiskey and bacon grease."

The reporter was looking at him strangely. "Your cologne …. Smells like a leather jacket?"

"Uh…." Spike said, looking apprehensive. He hoped this was going over well. He had already spent half of the money from this damn thing, he couldn't give it all back. "Yeah."

The reporter stared at him, her mouth agape, and to Spike's alarm, tears began to well in her eyes. She suddenly grabbed Spike's hands, pulled them close to her, water squeezing out of her eyes. "That's… that's the most inspired answer I've ever heard," she said, in a hushed voice. "Four years, reporting on this business, and that's the first time anyone has ever said anything as _real_ and _honest_ as what you just said. Spike, I truly and honestly believe that people in this town want to smell like you."

Spike shifted uneasily in his seat, subtly trying to untangle his hand from hers. "Er… thanks, lady."

"Maryanne," she said, in the same wobbly tone.

"Maryanne," he said, nodding. "Look, if it's all the same to you, Maryanne, I have some things I have to get done tonight," he said, glancing meaningfully at the next booth. There sat four gorgeous young things, wearing a shockingly small amount of clothing, who had conveniently been staring at him all night, several of them looking as if they'd like to devour him.

"Just one final question, Spike, and then we're done."

"Shoot."

"You're a pioneer. You're the first demon to break into the world of designer scent, with a major fashion house backing you, no less. We all know that you're a hero. Without your help, half of Los Angeles would have been destroyed during the Event. Do you have anything to say to the other demons out there who might be thinking about coming out to their friends and neighbors? Can this launch be seen as your announcement to the world that you're ready to become a role model, a spokesperson for demons? An advocate for change?"

Spike rolled his eyes. Not this again. Now he knew why Lorne was so eager for him to take this interview; it was simply another platform, another way for his multi-culturalist message to reach more ears. And Maryellen here was just another Caritas-loving reporter working for demon liberation, the fashionable cause of the hour. Unfortunately, there were enough politically correct twits in this town to actually make Lorne's new obsession a political reality. Bugger if he was going to let Lorne use him that way.

He looked at the reporter for a few hard seconds and spoke slowly. "Look, Marybeth. You need to understand something. I'm not a role-model. I'm nowhere near a role-model, and I'm certainly not anybody's bloody champion. I'm just a vampire with a sodding perfume. That's all you're going to write down in your silly little pad, and that's all you're going to tell people who ask you what Spike is like. Do we understand each other?"

"Yes," said the reporter, looking rather deflated. "It's Maryanne, not Marybeth."

"Okay, Marybeth. It's been fantastic, talking to you. Really, out-of-this-world. If you'll excuse me, I have some urgent business to attend to." He stood up, yanked his hand out of her iron-tight grasp, and took a swig from the bottle of tequila the waiter had placed on the table. He stumbled slightly as he drank, holding on to the edge of the table, and smacked his lips as he brought the bottle down. He winked salaciously at the reporter, and turned away, heading for the next booth, concentrating very hard on placing one foot in front of the other.

* * *

Lorne settles back in his armchair, cradling a whiskey sour in one hand. He takes a deep breath. He usually spends this hour reviewing the day's tape, checking to see what could be improved, how he looked on camera, how successful today's guest was. Today, he isn't focused on those things. He has more important things to worry about. He presses play on the remote, and watches as Juniper stands, blushing, and nods to the crowd, which roars in approval. He watches her take the stage as the lights dim, he watches her close her cat eyes and sing into the mike, and a soft soprano fills the room.

_I dreamed a dream of time gone by_

_When hope was high _

_And life worth living_

_I dreamed that love would never die_

_I dreamed that God would be forgiving_

Lorne's grip on his drink tightens. The woman's song recedes into the background and he hears the thud-thud-thud of drums intensify. The world darkens, and his dressing room fades away, and everything has receded into darkness.

Lorne closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. He waits for the message, as it always comes. He feels a sense of dread take over his body, and he knows, somehow, that this is part of the message, that he is to take whatever comes next extremely seriously.

"The army is rising. War is coming."

Lorne's eyes flash open. Juniper is smiling, bowing and blushing to the roar of the approving crowd. He watches himself stand and applaud the performance, a false smile pasted on his green lips.

"Buonissimo, my dear!" he listens to himself say. "Absolutely magnificent! You'll get that record deal in no time!"

He turns the television off and sits in silence for a few moments. He takes a swig of his drink, and winces against the burn of the liquor.

He's got no idea what the message means, but he knows it can't be good.

* * *

**So, there it is! That's all I'm showing, right now. I've got about four more parts written, and I'm working on the rest. If you'd like to get involved as a beta, email me (hidingincanada at gmail dot com) or respond in the reviews. Otherwise, I'm afraid you'll have to wait until I'm done.**

**Thanks guys!**


	3. Part 2 -- Hidden Gems

**Author's Note: Well, I apparently have no self-control. I said I was only going to post one substantive chapter and leave you all hanging, but I couldn't resist posting another chapter, just for the hell of it. Hope you enjoy this. And this is ALL you're gonna get out of me til I've finished! I swear! (If you want to read more, PM me, and we can talk.)**

* * *

She hit the pause button on the treadmill, and came to a standstill, gasping for breath. Kate checked her stats on the screen - she had run twelve miles, at an average of six minutes each. Not bad for an old lady, thought Kate, as she wiped the handles down with a dishtowel. She was close to beating her personal record. She undressed and entered her shower and stood there for a moment with her eyes closed, the warm water cascading over her shoulders. She breathed deeply, letting the humid air fill her lungs - she felt her muscles ache in the best way possible, and she tried to hold onto the serenity that she experienced during her run. Her mind was blissfully empty, though a small part of her knew that this was temporary, that the real world would flow back into her consciousness at any moment. Her eyes flashed open and she reached for the shampoo, massaging it into her hair. An hour long run in the morning was a luxury for a woman with a schedule like hers, she knew it, but she didn't think she'd be able to do what she did without it.

She finished her shower and toweled herself off, allowing herself to think about the tasks that lie ahead. Her cell phone rang, and she saw that the number was withheld. Curious, she answered.

"Hello?" A clinical male voice answered.

"Hello, Captain Lockley. I'm calling on behalf of Mayor Douglass. You are requested to meet him at the Montana Diner, on Thirty-first and Pleasant in ten minutes. "

"Did you say you're with the Mayor?"

"Yes, yes I did."

"Well, what does he want to do with me?" she asked, flatly.

"That's not for me to say, Captain."

"All right," she said, still confused. She got ready as fast as possible.

Ten minutes later, she arrived at the Montana Diner. It was your standard fifties-style train-car diner, staffed by a friendly looking waitress in a blue uniform. There was a morning crowd of senior citizens and blue-collar workers grabbing breakfast before work.

The mayor was sitting in a booth, drinking coffee and reading the morning paper. Kate recognized him from his TV appearances; she had never seen the man in person before. Certainly, she had never seen him in anything as informal as this - he was wearing what appeared to be flannel. He was a big man; she could see that he was tall, with broad shoulders. A military man, she thought, gone to seed. His hair was silver grey, and he had bushy eyebrows. She approached his booth.

"Sir? I'm Captain Kate Lockley, you asked for me," she said, her hands behind her back, standing military straight.

"Yes, Captain. Please do take a seat, I've been looking forward to meeting you," he said, gesturing to the booth opposite his. His voice was warm, friendly. Not taking her eyes off of him, she slid into the plastic booth, seating herself across from the Mayor.

"If you don't mind me asking, sir, why -" She was cut off.

"Should I get the number two or the number three special, do you think?" he asked.

"Uh, I don't know," she said, after a moment. "Sir, I was hoping we could discuss what this is about?"

"All in due time, Captain. All in due time," the mayor said cheerfully, not taking his eyes off the laminated menu in front of him. "I like the flapjacks here a whole bunch, but I tell you what, I might like the hashbrowns more." Irritated, Kate looked at her own menu, placed in front of her.

"Then get the number seven, sir, it's got both."

"Ah, but you see, it doesn't have any bacon. Bacon is essential. No, I think I'm going to go with number two. I'm in a carb-load kinda mood," he said, patting his not-insubstantial belly. "Flapjacks it is. Thank you, darlin'," handing his menu to a passing waitress, who overheard his order.

"Now," He said, turning his gaze onto Kate. "Let's discuss you, Captain Lockley."

"All right," she said, sitting up an inch taller.

"Now, you strike me as a sausage 'n eggs kinda gal, am I right?" She sunk back down in her seat.

"I think I'll have the bagel and cream cheese instead, sir."

"Really?" the Mayor said, surprised. "Well, have it your way, then. I like to start the day with meat, but different strokes, I guess."

She was silent. If he had a point, he'd get to it eventually, she thought.

"Now. You're probably wondering why I've asked you here," the Mayor said, looking at Kate and steepling his fingers.

"It's a little unusual, sir," said Kate, flatly.

"Yes it is, but I do things a little differently than most. Ah. Your coffee is here. Cream?" The Mayor pushed the basket of cream towards Kate. She shook her head.

"Suit yourself," he said, and poured another cream into his coffee. "Now you, you've been making waves, Captain."

She remained silent, merely watched him.

"Oh, you're being noticed, alright," said the Mayor, pouring cream into his coffee. "Don't think I haven't been paying attention to your division. I know, I know, SID is a secret," he said, ignoring Kate's attempted interjection. "But not much happens in this town that I'm not aware of, in some way or another," he said, smiling at her. "Now, I hear you're on the cusp of a big bust, am I right?"

"You're not wrong." It was true, Winters' confession had broke the case wide open - by following the leads he gave them, they were able to obtain some key evidence against Alexandre Dumais. Any day now, they were going to shut him down. "The question is, how did you know that, sir?"

"Your commander told me, obviously. I've been keeping very close tabs on you, my dear. The SID was my idea, after all," said the Mayor. Kate stared at him, surprised.

"_Your_ idea?"

"Yes, I figured it was time the LAPD played ball with the supernatural forces in this city. It does us no good to hide our heads in the sand, you know," he said.

"Yes sir," said Kate, nodding. It was all she could do.

"The Event taught us that we must be prepared, that we must be vigilant against the forces that threatens the safety of our citizens. And you, Captain, are on the front lines in this war," he said, looking down his nose at her.

Kate remained silent. The waitress came over with their food, the Mayor thanked her with a smile, and began buttering his toast in earnest.

"Now, seeing as that I've positioned myself as the law-and-order mayor in the press, I figure it would be a good idea to get to know the woman I chose for the most important post in the LAPD," he said, glancing at Kate, his attention still occupied by his breakfast.

"You hired me?" asked Kate, raising an eyebrow.

"Well, someone had to!" he said, grinning. "Yes, I picked you out myself, with a little help from your commander, I should mention. I asked Bill to give me a list of candidates, and he included your name. Now that caught my eye, because why would I choose someone who had already been let go from the Los Angeles Police Department once before?"

Kate fought to keep her face composed. She tilted her head to the side, as if he was telling a very interesting story, as if his mention of the worst thing that had ever happened to her hadn't rattled her one bit.

"Turns out, Bill had flagged your file all the way back when you got fired. The story you fed the disciplinary committee was extraordinary. So extraordinary, in fact, you couldn't have possibly made it up, unless you were completely insane. And Bill never thought you were insane. He always suspected there was something else going on with you. Before the Event, he had no way of knowing what it was. But after the Event, he realized that everything you had said could very well be possible, given that the supernatural does, in fact, exist."

"Why isn't Bill telling me all of this?" asked Kate. Her commander had given her no explanation when she had asked why she had been called in, after years of ostracization from the force.

"Well, you know Bill Connors, he's not very good at explaining these things," said the Mayor, in between bites. "Anything touchy feely, he leaves to someone else."

"And so he left this to you to tell me?"

"Evidently," said the Mayor, smiling. "But more importantly, Captain, I'm here to get to know you. I've got plans for the SID, and I don't think they can be executed without us working together a little."

"Yes sir," said Kate. She liked what she was hearing – more attention being paid to the SID could only be a good thing – but she still didn't know whether to trust this man or not.

"Now that we're here, why don't you tell me a little bit about yourself? What is it that you were _really_ doing with yourself those three years you were off the force? Somehow I don't believe that you were unemployed for that long."

"I freelanced." said Kate, stiffly. The Mayor waited for her to elaborate, and chuckled when she didn't.

"Guess I'm not going to get much more out of you. That's all right, it's not what's important at the moment." Kate had a suspicion that anything the Mayor really wanted to know, he had the means to find out on his own.

"Your father was on the force as well, am I right?" asked the Mayor, taking a bite of his eggs.

"Yes, sir. For twenty-one years. He died four years ago."

"I'm sorry to hear that. Twenty-one years is a long time."

"Yes it was," said Kate, neutrally.

"The Mayor's Ball is coming up, and I'd like you to be there, as my personal guest," said the Mayor, fluidly transitioning to a new topic.

"If you don't mind me asking… why?"

"Why?" asked the Mayor, bemused. Kate looked him square in the eye.

"I can do my job, and I can do it well, but part of my job is to keep this a secret. If people start asking questions about why I'm allowed to go to things like the Mayor's Ball - me, a disgraced former cop -"

The Mayor cut her off. "That's just the thing, you see. I've got big plans for your division. I don't intend for you to hide in the shadows forever."

"Big plans like what?" asked Kate, suspicious.

"Oh, you'll see. There's a time and a place for everything. Right now, all we need to focus on is busting this demon mafia wide open. What comes next, who knows."

She was silent a moment. "Can I ask you a question?"

The mayor dabbed his lips with a napkin. "Shoot."

"Why is it that you eat at a three-dollar restaurant when you drive a Bentley?" she asked. She watched him closely. The mayor laughed. "I do read some things, you know. I know that you're filthy rich, for one," said Kate, not relenting.

"I know quality, kid. Quality doesn't always mean the priciest thing on the menu. Quality doesn't mean having the best resume, or the perfect backstory. I can find gems in all sorts of places," said the Mayor. Kate smiled, tightly. She leaned back and took a sip of her coffee, her eyes on him.

"I can see that."

* * *

Where the hell was Connor? Angel looked at his watch and, for the fifth time today, suppressed an impatient sigh. He was supposed to meet him here, at the lobby, at noon - it was 12:20, and nothing. No Connor. Just Angel, standing uncomfortably near the security desk, exchanging awkward nods with the security guards, one of whom was staring at him in an unsettling manner. Angel knew what was happening: the guard was wondering if he had seen that face somewhere, and whether that face was a famous face, and why he couldn't place it. Angel, looking for something to occupy his hands, grabbed a flyer that a volunteer was passing out, and opened it up.

Inside was a photograph of a four-armed demon with scaly, yellow skin. He was wearing an altered business suit, and was holding a business case. The caption read, "Meet Paul. Paul has brown hair, blue eyes, and is six feet tall. He works as a chartered accountant, and likes to play rugby on the weekends. He has a horned tail and is a Nymotar demon. _And that's okay_." Angel turned the flyer over, and saw the inscription at the bottom of the page. "Paid for by The Caritas Action Fund". Angel frowned, and put it in his pocket to look at later. Lorne was up to something, obviously.

He wondered what Connor could be doing that was so important that he could forget to meet his father for lunch. He wondered if Connor even cared about meeting Angel, whether he saw it as a burden, if he was just doing it to get Angel off his back. Screw this, he thought. Connor can buy himself lunch, he's earning enough now, anyway. But as he turned to walk out the door, he heard a familiar voice call for him.

"Angel! Wait!" He turned and saw Connor running towards him, tie askew, a brilliant grin on his face. "I'm so glad you haven't left, I was worried you might have," he said, clapping him on the shoulder.

"Nah, I was just going to get a drink of water," lied Angel. He smiled, and looked his son over. He had never seen Connor wear a suit before; it made him look years older, although his still longish hair betrayed his true age. "Nice suit."

"Oh, yeah," said Connor, adjusting his lapels. "Mr. Hardman helped me get it tailored, actually. Can you believe he actually took me shopping?"

Angel frowned. "Is that... normal, for a boss?"

"Probably not," said Connor, laughing. "But what can I say, save the guy from being eaten by a Malgorak demon, and he'll do crazy things for you."

They made their way to the elevator and hit the down button - Angel needed to travel via sewer, as per usual - and emerged from a manhole in an alley next to an Italian restaurant that Connor's boss swore by. They entered through the back door.

"So, did Buffy say yes?" asked Connor, through a mouthful of garlic bread.

"Not only did she say yes, she's sending someone to supervise the construction."

"That's good, I guess," said Connor, swallowing. He looked at his father carefully. "How does it feel, not having the hotel anymore?"

Angel played with his fork. "Fine, I mean, it's not an issue," he said, not quite looking at Connor. "I'm just glad someone's getting some use out of it."

"Yeah," said Connor. Angel was glad he didn't push the matter. Truth was, Angel wasn't adjusting to the change all that well. It was hard, seeing his former home taken from him, even if he gave it up voluntarily. It was one thing to sign the papers, another entirely to see them paint over Fred's room, covering her drawings and equations forever.

"It will be nice to have all those slayers here, though," said Connor. Angel looked at Connor with a bemused expression on his face. "To hunt with, Jesus!" said Connor, blushing.

"Sure. To hunt with."

"God, let's talk about something else."

"Okay. Meet any nice girls lately?"

"You jerk," said Connor, smiling.

Angel laughed, and an awkward silence settled over them. Angel wondered if normal parents felt this strange around their children, if they too found small chat as difficult as he did. Then again, Angel wasn't very good at talking to most people. Connor shouldn't be any different. Angel looked at the ceiling and swallowed.

It was Connor who broke the silence. "So... don't you want to know how my new job is going?"

"Of course I do!" said Angel, relieved. "How's the new job going?"

"Amazing," said Connor, a shy grin stealing over his features. He played with a salt shaker. "I thought I'd be running coffee all day, you know, like most interns? But they actually are giving me real work to do. I've been put on the Pearson suit, and I have to proof a bunch of briefs before tomorrow."

"Hardman... Michael Hardman, right?" Angel had heard that name before, somewhere.

"Yep. He's kind of a bigshot, seems to know everyone who's everyone in this town. I heard him speaking on the phone with Harvey Weinstein the other day. He's really tight with the mayor, too."

"Huh." But that hadn't been where he had heard the name before, had it? Angel wracked his brain. "No, I remember. It was when I was CEO of Wolfram & Hart. We sued him for back wages - he hadn't been paying his household staff, because they were undocumented demons, and he thought he could get away with it."

"Really?" Connor sounded genuinely surprised. "Well, I'm sure there's some kind of explanation, Mr. Hardman really doesn't sound like the type of guy who'd hold out on his employees. Seriously, you know how much he's paying me? And I'm just an intern!"

"You're also the superhero who saved his life," Angel reminded his son. "And you have a social security number." But Connor didn't appear to be listening.

"Think I can get away with ordering a real drink, here? Wanna see if they'll card me?"

"Are you kidding? They'll definitely card you," retorted Angel, fondly. "You look like you're seventeen." If he could reach over to tousle his son's hair, he would.

As predicted, Connor's mouth twisted into an ugly grimace. "Nuh-uh. With this suit on? I look at _least_ twenty-five."

Angel smirked, and took a sip of water. "Keep telling yourself that, kiddo."

The food came, and they started to eat. Angel picked at his salad (the skimpiest item on the menu), while Connor dug into his lasagne, making obscene noises as he did so.

"You know," started Connor, in between bites, "I actually saw the mayor yesterday - he actually came to have lunch with Mr. Hardman, and he visited our offices."

"Really," said Angel, curious. "What's the mayor like, in person?"

"I didn't talk to him, or anything, jeez," said Connor, laughing. "I just saw him from a distance. He's... big. Could lose a few pounds. He's kind of... intense? Even when he was smiling and saying hi to people, he looked kind of... predatory, if that makes sense."

"I know the type," said Angel, thinking of another mayor, back in Sunnydale. "Anyway, we're probably being unfair. He's a pretty good guy, I think," said Angel, thinking of Kate and her new position. The people in charge were actually making the right decisions, for once.

"Why do you say that?" asked Connor. "Actually, I don't care. Wanna see if I can get this in the garbage can?" He threw a balled up straw wrapper and missed the can by about a foot.

"Not even close," said Angel, laughing. "I can do it so much better," he bragged, ripping off a bit of napkin and balling it up. Soon they were playing an impromptu game of restaurant basketball.

By the time dessert came, the awkwardness had completely dissipated, and they were laughing and joking with each other like this was perfectly natural to them, like they do this all the time. Angel looked at his son, bright smile on his face, and wondered at how close they had come to utter destruction, the first time they had tried to build a relationship. Not for the last time, he thanked fate that he had decided to give Connor a new life, with normal parents.

"So I might have a project," started Angel, hesitantly. "I was wondering, you know, if you had the time,"

"What is it?" asked Connor, through a mouthful of chocolate cake.

"Apparently, demons are going missing. Peaceful demons, not-so-peaceful demons. I got a tip-off from... a friend. She wants me to investigate."

"Huh."

"Uh, yeah. So I was hoping that... that maybe you might want to help me out? You know, hit the sewers, talk to our old leads, see if anything turns up?" asked Angel, trying to make it sound like he didn't have all that much invested in Connor's answer.

"Well, the thing is..." started Connor, and Angel knew what his answer was going to be, before the kid could finish. "I've got a lot of work with the firm? And I just..."

"No, no," interjected Angel. "It's okay. It's totally fine. You know. Whatever."

"I can probably help out a little," said Connor. "I just have so much work, these days, you know? I don't want to stretch myself too thin.

"I get it," said Angel, smiling. He reached over and patted Connor's hand. "You'll do what you can."

They said their goodbyes and Connor left through the front door, looking cheerful, like nothing could touch his mood. Angel brooded on his walk home, hands shoved in his pockets. He didn't know why he'd been so sure that Connor would join him wholeheartedly on this case, that Connor would love to have the opportunity to work with his father again. But on the other hand, he thought, Connor probably had had enough of demons and monsters and hunting. The kid's probably relishing his chance to work in the light of day, for once. Angel listened to the echoing drip-drop of water in the sewer, and smiled, sadly. Connor was going to a place where Angel couldn't follow, no matter how much he might want to. And Angel, Angel belonged down here, underground; he couldn't blame the kid for not wanting to stay with him.

* * *

"I've called this meeting to order to discuss the construction of Slayer Base #45, and our progress in recruiting fresh slayers to join our new division. Any questions?" Keri Branch looked around the room, as if daring anyone to speak. She was tall, black, and lithe, with long golden brown locs that curled and crinkled all the way down her back. There was something vaguely military in her appearance; she wore a ribbed tank top which barely masked her impressive musculature over cargo pants and combat boots. Give her a cap and jacket with insignia, and she'd look just like an infantry soldier. Angel was intimidated by her, and was desperately trying to not let it show.

"I've got a question," said Spike. "Why am I here?" He was slouched in his chair, his legs up on the table. He was smoking, noted Angel, with a prickling annoyance. When he owned the Hyperion, he _never_ let anyone smoke indoors.

"Any other questions?" asked Keri, ignoring Spike. Even more annoying; Keri didn't seem irritated by his presence or his insolence, in fact, there was a slight smile on her lips.

Angel spoke up. "When are we going to start receiving students? As soon as construction is finished?"

"Sooner than that, actually. Our first batch of newbies will be arriving in two days. Seven slayers in all. We're going to have to step up logistics, we're going to have to get the hotel ready for their arrival. That means fresh sheets, food, and training materials."

"Easy enough," said Spike. He extinguished his cigarette on the oak table, leaving a burn mark. He took his feet off the table and slapped his thighs. "Are we done, yet?"

"No, Spike," said Angel, as if speaking to a child. "We're not done yet. We've just started."

"Angel's right. We need to go over training schedules, and we're going to need to figure out how to divide up the workload when we're at max capacity, with one hundred and fifty," said Keri.

"Okay, well, we're going to need more teachers. I can probably help you recruit some good ones. ," said Angel.

"That's not going to work, Angel," said Keri.

"Why not?"

"You're not going to have anything to do with this operation."

"... Excuse me?" asked Angel. He felt his heart drop into his stomach.

"That's the other thing I called you here today to discuss. Just so we're clear; you're not to have anything to do with this operation, in any capacity. You signed over the hotel, and that's the extent of your involvement."

"What? This is my hotel, this was my idea!" Angel spluttered.

Spike looked overjoyed. "You mean that prat won't have anything to do with the new slayers? How about that, Angel, eh? All that work and no reward! Ha!" Spike dissolved into laughter.

"I'm sorry, but this is set in stone," said Keri, coolly. "Not my idea - I get my orders directly from Summers."

"This was Buffy's idea?" yelled Angel, furious. He stood up.

"We don't want the former CEO of Wolfram & Hart to have anything to do with the Slayer Organization. At least - not yet," said Keri, her tone softening at the last moment.

"What about me, do I get to play?" asked Spike, eagerly.

"If you're asking whether you'll get to train the newbies, Spike, the answer is yes," said Keri.

"_What_?" yelled Angel.

"Ha!" yelled Spike, in triumph. He started balling up sheets of paper and throwing them at Angel's head. "I get to have the ickle baby slayers and you're not allowed any at all!"

Frustrated, Angel turned to Keri. "You're going to let this idiot train new slayers but I'm not allowed on company premises?"

"I never said -"

"Oh, you said, alright," said Angel, angrily. "You said plenty. Do you people have any idea what I've done for this city? What I've done for the world? _This_ is how you reward me?

"I'm just following orders, Angel," said Keri, an edge creeping into her voice. "Don't kill the messenger,"

"Seeing as how the 'messenger'" (he made quotation marks with his fingers) "is currently the one who's in front of me, I will take it out on you, thanks," he said. Even he realized how petulant that sounded. He sunk down into his chair.

"When do we start?" said Spike, gleefully.

Keri smiled at him. "As soon as the first batch arrives. We'll be obtaining some new teachers as soon as Buffy can free up some of her team to come here. I'm also going to scout out the local talent, see who Mr. Giles knows in L.A."

"I can probably put you in touch with some people," said Angel, distractedly. He looked suddenly disgusted with himself. "Wait, why am I _helping_ you? You people don't need my help," he said. "You know what? Screw this. I'm out of here. Good luck running this place without me."

"Right, bye now," said Spike, laughing.

"Fuck off, Spike," he muttered, as he left the room. From the lobby he could hear Spike's continued laughter, and his flirtatious proposals. ("How about we finish this up over a pint or two, love?")

He left the hotel and scaled the walls, coming to his favorite spot on the roof, where he used to sit and think, back when he lived here. Out of all the possibilities, all the ways this could have gone, he never would have seen this coming. Angel felt hollow in a way he hadn't since he lost Connor. He wished, not for the first time, that Cordelia was here. He wasn't deluded enough to want things to be the way they were, when Cordy was human – but he wished that he could just have a conversation with her. If they could just talk, if he could just hear her voice again – that's all he wanted.

He thought back to the Event; to when Cordelia had appeared before him when he was dying after being injured from a fight. She had given him a vision, one that he had found hard to shake from his memory. In it, he had been standing in a field of corpses, blood dripping from his lips, his vampire mask on. He had been smiling ghoulishly, amidst the carnage of which he was the cause. It was the apocalypse, the thing that she had shown him – and he knew, as he always had, he supposed, what his role would be when it came to pass. Shanshu is right, he thought to himself in despair. He would end up alone, friendless, and driven to evil. He _would_ play a part in ending the world, after all.

Maybe he needed to separate himself from people entirely, thought Angel to himself – maybe Keri was really just doing him a favor, cutting him off from the Slayers before he hurt anyone, before he ruined anyone's life. Because the truth was, even if he wanted to be around other people, even if he wanted to join with them, make one with their cause, it never seemed to work out. There seemed to be something inherently rotten in him, something that ruined all his relationships. Maybe he should just stop trying. He was immortal – he was living life on a different scale than other people. It was time to accept that.

Perhaps he'd be better off embracing the demon – at least it was suited to live this life. Being human wasn't working out too well for him.

He sighed, and jumped off the edge of the roof. He landed noiselessly, and started walking home, hands shoved in his pockets. At least this frees up my time to work on Kate's case, he thought. Might as well find out what's happening there. At least some people still have a use for him, he thought, bitterly.

* * *

"Here, I got you a PBR. Now will you please shut up?"

"We're missing the Kappa Alpha's party for this, man. This had better be worth it, goddamn."

Connor rolled his eyes. His roommate had been complaining all night - from the moment Connor told him about the concert 'til now - about how much he didn't want to come. Never mind that Connor never actually invited Rahul to this thing, he only mentioned it in passing. Rahul was the one who decided to tag along. Connor chose not to point it out that Rahul could have gone to the frat party all along - it was easier to just let him come.

"There aren't even any hot chicks here, man! Let's leave."

"Dude, you know I can't. My friend is in this show."

"I feel like I'm going to get hepatitis just from breathing this air," said Rahul, scrunching his nose. He looked around him, a look of disgust on his face. "These people all look like meth addicts."

Connor sighed. The Ivy definitely wasn't the most distinguished venue they could have chosen, it was in a slightly run-down part of town, but meth addicts? That was going a bit far. Almost everyone in this bar was wearing black, had spiked hair, and lots of facial piercings. The girls had blue and green and pink hair, the guys all seemed to wear eyeliner and had lots of tattoos. Connor and Rahul certainly didn't fit in. Christ, Rahul was even wearing a polo shirt.

"Just drink. I'll get you another if you'll stop complaining."

"Who is this friend, anyway? This had better be the best show of all time," said Rahul, taking a sip of his drink.

"A buddy of mine. We fought together during… during the Event." Connor felt strange talking about it with his roommate – Rahul hadn't been in L.A. during the time; his friends had filled him in on what had happened, but he had a hard time believing it.

Rahul shook his head. "I'll never be convinced that the entire city wasn't just on a lot of drugs."

Connor smiled. "Trust me, it happened. Weird shit happens all the time in L.A. My friend, the one we came to see, he's pretty strange too."

"I could be doing a keg stand right now," Rahul grumbled.

Connor shook his head and rolled his eyes. This is just sad, thought Connor. Out of all the people in this city he knew, all the cool, interesting people he had met during the Event, and he was stuck hanging out with his annoying-ass roommate. He found himself thinking about what Gwen would have thought of Rahul, about how she would have taken him down a notch, and he violently shook his head, as if to banish all thoughts of her. He wasn't going to do that to himself, he thought, angrily. He wasn't going to think about Gwen anymore. He went to get himself another drink. He ordered a jack and coke and decided to sit at the bar for a while, in order to get away from Rahul's whining. Besides, he thought, might be good for his roommate to spend some time alone in this crowd. Might bring him back down to earth. And if he got into serious trouble, Connor could always bail him out. He took a sip and looked around. Despite their appearance, it was a normal enough crowd. A crowd that would not look out of place at a Marilyn Manson concert, but still. There were groups of friends milling about, animated discussion happening, a few couples making out in the corner. He tried to tune out the loud conversations exploding around him - one of the most irritating things about super-hearing was that _everything_ seemed to happen at top volume - and failed, miserably.

He scanned the room for Spike, and saw him arguing in a corner with a girl. He could only see the back of her head, but Spike looked upset. Probably a girlfriend, thought Connor. He wished he had half as much game as Spike. Maybe then he'd be able to go out with actual girls, instead of his dumbass roommate all the time. He approached the couple, and froze, when he came close enough to hear what they were saying.

"For the last time, darling. This neighborhood is dangerous. I can't protect you here. You shouldn't have come alone. You shouldn't have come at all."

"I can handle it, Spike," said the girl, a defiant hand on her hip. "Like I told you, I know how to defend myself." She opened her jacket to discreetly offer him a glimpse of whatever she was packing.

He laughed. "You think a stake is going to protect you? I've got news for you, niblet, you're not a slayer. You're just a girl. You've had others to bail you out your whole life. You're alone in the big city, now. You have to start thinking practically."

The girl huffed and turned to walk away. He grabbed her arm and held her in place. "Let _go_ of me, Spike!" she said, trying to pull free.

"Not until you promise me you won't do anything this stupid again. Not without me or Angel or someone who can protect you."

"Newsflash, dumbass," she yelled. "You're not my stupid sister. Just because you want to get into Buffy's pants doesn't make you her. You don't get to talk to me that way."

"Oh yes I do, Dawn. I'm the closest thing you have to family in this town, and I don't take that lightly."

Connor tried to back away. The last thing he wanted to do was to get involved in this conversation. It was too late, though - Spike saw him. "Oy! Connor! Come here."

Connor sighed. He approached the couple, looking wary. "What's up, Spike?"

"Do me a favor and watch this girl for me, will you?" He still had a grip on her arm, and she rolled her eyes, looking annoyed.

Connor looked at the girl's face clearly for the first time. She was pretty, with light brown hair that seemed to reach her waist, and large blue eyes. He inhaled sharply as he realized who she was. It was Dawn, the girl from the bushes. His palm felt clammy, and he immediately forgot what he was going to say.

"Oh, hi!" said Dawn, brightly. "It's you!"

"Uh… yeah," mumbled Connor, smiling sheepishly. He rubbed the back of his neck. He'd been thinking of her for days, he'd been imagining meeting her by chance, and each time, he'd seen himself doing something cool, maybe saving her from a demon or something. This didn't quite measure up.

"Good, you two know each other," said Spike. He paused, looking at Connor. "And Connie here likes Dawnie. Even better."

"Spike!" said Connor, angrily.

"Right. Well, off then, you two. I've got to get ready for the set." He disappeared into the green room, leaving Connor and Dawn alone together. Connor looked at the ceiling, cursing under his breath.

"I can't believe that jerk, talking to me like that. Can you believe it?" asked Dawn, angrily. She didn't appear to notice how uncomfortable Connor was.

"Uh, totally. Total jerk," said Connor.

"I mean, it's not like I'm totally incompetent. I've fought vampires, for Christ's sake. And no, my dumb sister wasn't always there to bail me out. I've done plenty on my own, thanks," she said, pushing past people to get to the bar. Connor followed her, dumbly. They took seats at the bar.

"So how do you know Spike?" asked Dawn, taking a sip of her gin and tonic.

"Um, he's a friend of my Dad's," said Connor. "Well, 'friend' might be stretching it. He knows my Dad. How do you know Spike?"

"Oh, my sister and him used to go out," said Dawn. "Back in Sunnydale. We were all kind of… on the same team. A lot of the time. It was fun."

Connor nodded. He swallowed the remainder of his jack and coke and quickly ordered another one. "So… have you gotten lost on campus since I last saw you?" He winced, mentally. Dumb question.

"Yeah, lots of times. I don't know when I'll get the hang of it," said Dawn, looking frustrated.

"It'll happen. Just give it time. It always takes a while to adjust to new places."

"Yeah. I just want it to happen a little faster, you know?"

"How about your classes? Anything fun?"

"Biology, American History, Advanced French, Political Theory and Anthropology," she rattled off. "No idea what I'm going to major in, so don't ask me that."

"I wasn't going to," said Connor. "Hell, I don't even know what my major is going to be."

"You don't?"

"Nah. I was thinking finance last year, but now I think I want to switch into pre-law."

"Oh," said Dawn. She fiddled with her straw.

Realizing he was losing her attention, Connor desperately grasped for a new topic. "Um, who's your sister? Does she fight vampires too?"

"Uh, Buffy Summers? Do you know her? She's kind of a 'big deal', or whatever," said Dawn. "She's my sister and all, but she's a little overrated. At least, she's not the second coming, like everyone seems to think she is."

"Buffy? The Slayer? Oh hey, I know her!"

"Yeah, you and everybody," Dawn took a swig of her drink and made a face.

"No, I mean, my dad and Buffy used to be a…. a thing."

"Wait, who's your dad?"

"Um, Angel? He's…. he's a vampire," said Connor, awkwardly. He usually never talked to people about his relationship with Angel - having a vampire dad was just too weird - but for some reason, he was spilling everything for this girl.

"Oh my god. You're _that_ Connor. I've totally heard about you." said Dawn, turning towards him and examining him seriously. "You're way more normal than I thought you'd be," she said, tilting her head.

Connor swallowed. _Jesus, she knows about what I used to be like? _he thought. "Well, I'm pretty much as normal as they come," said Connor, fighting to keep his voice light. "Want to meet my roommate?" he asked, in a desperate attempt to change the subject. "He should be around here somewhere. I think I might have left him alone too long."

"Sure," said Dawn, hopping off her barstool. "Let's meet your roommate."

They pushed their way through the crowd back to where Connor left Rahul. Connor looked around. He had to be here somewhere. Dawn looked at him, expectantly. "He was just here," he yelled, over the crowd, which had become much louder and rowdier. Finally, Connor saw him. Rahul was surrounded by a group of goth girls, one of whom was hanging off his shoulder and holding his hand. He was speaking animatedly, and some of the girls were laughing.

"Connor! My man!" Rahul waved him over. Connor and Dawn approached the group. "This is Lily, she's an artist," he yelled.

"Cool! Hey, meet Dawn! She's a friend of my Dad's," Connor yelled back. Lily and Dawn smiled at each other. The band started playing, and they were saved from further conversation-making.

It was grunge meets punk and it was all just a little bit too eighties for Connor. Spike was the lead singer and lead guitarist, and to be fair, he was killing it. Connor never knew that Spike had this talent, but after one hundred fifty years of being alive, it was hardly a surprise that Spike had picked up the guitar somewhere along the way. His voice was incredible - it was husky and low, tinged with gravel. The crowd was going nuts - he heard the usual rock concert epithets ("WE LOVE YOU, SPIKE!" "MARRY ME!"), and a few more limited to this particular event ("STAKE ME, BABY!"). Connor wondered how many were here just to see Spike, and had no interest in the band. Spike had probably saved more lives than Connor and Angel put together, during the Event. There was a reason he had the biggest following of them all.

He looked over at Dawn. She had a huge smile on her face, and despite her earlier anger with Spike, she looked almost proud of him. Connor remembered how Spike had touched her earlier and felt a flicker of jealousy.

The show ended after three raucous sets. Rahul and Lily had disappeared long before - Connor was reasonably sure his roommate had taken the car, meaning he'd have to find another way home. He hoped that this time, Rahul remembered to keep business in his room. He didn't need to walk in his roommate having sex on the living room couch again. It had taken him a week to get up the nerve to sit on that thing, after that.

"C'mon, you wanna go say hi to the band?" asked Dawn, smiling.

"You sure you want to? There's just a big crowd wanting to speak to Spike ," said Connor, gesturing at the mass of people that surrounded the stage.

"Don't worry about them. I've got this." She grabbed his hand and shouldered her way into the crowd, actually pushing people aside when she needed to. Connor followed, hesitantly. Spike was, as expected, at the center of the adoring crowd, sitting on the stage and cheerfully signing autographs for people.

"And whom should I make it out to? Tiana? Lovely name. Next person," he said, looking to grab another napkin held by an outstretched hand.

"Spike!" yelled Dawn, her hair a little ruffled. "That was amazing!"

"New plan!" said Spike, to the crowd, standing up. "My friends are here, you lot can piss off. Cheers!"

The groupies dispersed, several of them shooting Dawn evil looks. Dawn didn't appear to notice. "I had no idea you could sing that well! I mean, I knew a little, because when that singing demon came to Sunnydale to make me his wife, and we all were hit with the singing curse, you had a pretty good voice, but this, this was different!"

Connor stared at Dawn. Singing demon? What?

"Well, thanks, niblet," said Spike, eyes shining with affection. He grasped her hands in his. "I'm so glad you could make it." Dawn started to speak, but Spike cut her off. "Now that Connie's here to look after you, of course."

"Of course," said Dawn, rolling her eyes. But she didn't argue with him. "Aren't you going to introduce us to your band?" she asked.

"Sure, sure. This is Johnny, on drums, and Steve on bass, and Angie on keyboard." He pointed each band member out. Dawn struck up a conversation with Angie, and Connor nodded to Spike.

"Hey man, good show," said Connor, grasping Spike's hand and pulling him in for a quick, manly hug.

"Thanks for coming, brother." Spike said. "It's been great having you. And thank you for looking out for Dawn, I had no idea she'd be here."

"Anytime, man. Anytime."

"I don't even know how she found out about this gig," said Spike, irritated. "In fact, I have no idea how most of the people here found out about it. We sure as hell didn't tell anybody."

"Sorry, were you trying to keep your musical career under wraps?" asked Connor, smiling. "Spike, avoiding the spotlight? Since when?"

"Since these bloody paparazzi started following me around, mate. Can't handle them. Can't get a moment to myself, not even for a fag. Speaking of, you got a light?" A cigarette dangled from his lips as he patted down his duster, checking its various pockets.

"Nope. And that blows, I'm sorry, Spike," said Connor.

"Ah, got one," said Spike. He lit the cigarette and exhaled, slowly. "Love not being alive. I can smoke as many of these as I want," he said, grinning.

"Hey Spike! You gonna help us pack up or what?" said Johnny, the drummer.

"Half a mo'," said Spike. He turned back to Connor. "You and Dawn wait for me, yeah? I'll give you two a ride back home."

"Alright."

It took twenty minutes for the band to pack up all their instruments and get them ready to be loaded into the van. Connor helped, and Dawn helped herself to one last beer. (She snuck one from the bar when the bartender was in the back room.) The second they emerged from the venue, however, they were confronted with a swarm of paparazzi, who began taking hundreds of pictures. The bulbs flashed in Connor's eyes and it was hard to see straight.

"Spike, how are you feeling tonight? Are you going to be a musician now?"

"Spike, what's your band's name?"

"Is that Connor? Hi Connor! Are you and Spike hanging out now?"

"Fuck off!" yelled Spike, flipping two fingers at the offending reporter. Connor threw his arm around Dawn and tucked her into his side to protect her from the cameras being shoved in their faces.

"Who is she, Connor? Is she your girlfriend?" yelled one photographer, and the crowd, which had been intense, suddenly became even more aggressive, elbowing at each other to get a glimpse of Dawn's face.

"No, asshole!" yelled Connor, but the damage was done. Connor saw a photographer's arm reach out and grab Dawn - pulling her temporarily free from his embrace. Dazed, she looked onto the crowd, giving the photographers a clear shot of her face.

"Fuckers!" yelled Connor, infuriated. He threw himself into the fray, grabbing the offending paparazzo and punching him in the face.

"Enough!" said Johnny, grabbing Connor by the collar and pulling him back. "They'll just use that against you, dude," he said into Connor's ear. As much as he hated it, Johnny was right. It wasn't worth giving them more of what they wanted. They managed to push their way through the crowd and into the van and it peeled away with a screech. They turned a corner and the crowd of paparazzi faded from view.

"Holy crap, what just happened?" asked Dawn, her face red with shock. She pushed her hair back with her hands, knotting her fingers in its strands.

"The paparazzi," said Connor, grimly. "Welcome to my world, kids."

"Your world friggin' sucks, Connor," said Angie.

"It really, really does," he said, nodding.

"I'm going to find out who leaked the show to the press, and I'm going to drink them," said Spike, solemnly.

"Please do," said Dawn, still dazed.

Twenty minutes later, they were at the UCLA campus. "Here we are, niblet. I'll see you later, yeah?" said Spike. "Come to the Hyperion on the twenty-first, around seven. The first slayers are going to be arriving then."

"Bye Spike," said Dawn, smiling. She kissed Spike on the cheek and dismounted. Connor got out of the van after her, even though his place was a good forty-five minutes away, walking distance. He didn't care. He just wanted a few more seconds with Dawn. The van left and they were left staring at each other.

"So," said Connor. "Weird night."

"Yeah," said Dawn, laughing. "Thanks for punching that guy. That was awesome."

"Anytime," said Connor, smiling. There was an awkward pause.

"This is you, I guess."

"This is me," she said, a languid smile on her face. _Now would be the perfect time to ask her out_, thought Connor. He let the moment stretch, while he searched for the right words. They never came.

"Well, bye!" he said, his voice tight.

"Bye," said Dawn, a note of confusion in her voice. She was clearly expecting more.

He waved at her quickly and started to walk away, cursing himself silently.

* * *

CONNOR'S IN LOVE!

NEW GIRL ON THE SCENE FOR CONNOR

CONNOR REILLY: UNHINGED AND VIOLENT!

Angel grabbed the tabloids from the checkout lane. He dropped his laundry detergent, the only thing he had in his cart, on the belt, and furiously turned to page three for the first article on Connor.

"AN UNPROVOKED ATTACK! Last night, Connor Reilly, 20, assaulted a photographer after a disagreement over a picture. The photographer was left with a broken nose and a bloody lip and plans to sue. (PHOTOS on PAGE 5) This isn't the first time Connor, one of the heroes of the Event, has been caught acting in a violent and irrational manner. Lisa Kane, one of the women Connor saved during the Event, describes to us how Connor violently dismembered a demon before her very eyes. (INTERVIEW on PAGE 7) Is the fame going to Connor's head? Is he acting out because he feels he can do whatever he wants? We asked celebrity psychologist, Dr. Drew, to comment."

"Hey, buddy." Angel heard a voice, and looked up. The cashier was staring at Angel, looking confused. "You gonna check out, or what?"

"Yeah," said Angel, distractedly. He grabbed every tabloid available in the aisle (each one seemed to have something to do with either Connor or Dawn) and plopped them down next to his laundry detergent. "How much do I owe you?"

"$14.48"

"Here. Keep the change," said Angel, grabbing his shopping bag. He opened up his umbrella and left the store, taking the three blocks back to his place at a brisk pace. When he got home, he spread out all the tabloids on his dinner table, and stared at them.

"NEW GIRL FOR CONNOR? Connor Reilly, one of the heroes of The Event, was spotted with a new companion yesterday leaving the Ivy, after one of Spike's shows. The girl in question has been identified as Dawn Summers, 19, a freshman at UCLA. Despite the newness of the relationship, "they are wildly in love", said a source close to the couple. "They met just a few weeks ago and Dawn has already moved into his apartment. Connor's friends think she's a bit of a gold-digger, but Connor doesn't seem to care." The source went on to say that "Dawn has expensive designer tastes, and Connor has been eager to get her whatever she wants, no matter what the price-tag is."

Angel frowned. Buffy was not going to like this. Angel was supposed to protect Dawn, not let her get dragged into the L.A. celebrity news machine. And Connor! What the hell was he thinking, punching someone in the presence of cameras? Angel made a mental note to call Gunn - maybe he could recommend a good lawyer for Connor, if he actually did get sued.

His phone rang, and he answered it. "Hello?"

"Angel? It's Randy, Merl's cousin."

"Hi Randy, thanks for getting back to me so soon," said Angel.

The voice on the other end laughed grimly. "Not like I had much choice, man. Not after you threatened to turn me into the police for smuggling."

"You're doing the right thing, Randy," said Angel. He folded up the tabloids and put them in a desk drawer for further study. "Merl would be proud,"

"Merl! Don't talk to me about Merl, buddy," said Randy, angrily. "It's your damn fault Merl's dead in the first place! We both know that if he had never talked to you, he'd be here today."

"That might be so," said Angel, smoothly. "What Merl never told you is what would have happened to him if he chose not to speak to me. I would have made what those guys did to him look understated."

"You're a bastard, Angel."

"When can we meet, Randy?"

"I'm free in an hour. Meet me behind McAllister's Pub. Come with the money, otherwise, you ain't gettin' nothing from me."

"See you then." Angel hung up the phone and checked his watch. An hour to get uptown. That left plenty of time to call Connor and yell at him.

* * *

"You came alone?" Randy was pacing back and forth, smoking a cigarette.

"Yes," said Angel.

"You got the money?" asked Randy.

"Yes," said Angel.

"Let me see it," said Randy. Angel showed him the package he kept in his pocket. "I want to count it," he said.

` "Nope," said Angel, putting the package back in his jacket. "Not before you tell me what I want to hear."

"Alright, man. Alright. So here's what I know. Demons are going missing all over town," said Randy, taking a drag off of his cigarette.

"Thanks for the intel, superspy," said Angel, rolling his eyes. "Anything more than that, or has this just been a massive waste of my time?"

"Hang on, hang on," said Randy, irritated. "I'm just getting started, here. The mafia is getting involved, since two of its top deputies have gone missing in the last week."

"Dumais? Or Cintrón? Which family?"

"Cintrón," said Randy. "At first, they thought it was defection. Then a member of the family went missing. Now they think that the Dumais mafia had something to do with it. They're gearing up for a war."

"Do you have a list of names of missing demons?"

"Yeah, all the ones I could figure out," said Randy, handing over a sheet of paper. "The ones who are connected, and the ones who aren't so well-connected. I feel for those families, ya know? Those poor bastards got nowhere to turn, they're just waiting for their family members to come home," said Randy, stubbing out his cigarette on the pavement.

Angel snorted. "Didn't know you cared, Randy."

"I care, asshole," said Randy, angrily. "You should talk to Mrs. Tranton, she's a Plontak demon. Her husband went missing, and he wasn't involved in anything. Not a thing. He was a pharmacist. He was even living above-side, going stealth as a human. His boss got the LAPD involved."

"They're not going to have any luck," said Angel.

"Yeah, no shit," said Randy. "The police aren't there to help demons, everyone knows that. They're there for humans only."

"That might be changing," muttered Angel, examining the list Randy had given him. "Thanks for this, Randy. You've done good work."

"Yeah yeah," said Randy, dismissively. "Now give me my money."

Angel looked at his list. Randy had done well - there were names on here that he didn't recognize; names that Kate didn't put on the list of leads she gave him. Almost all the names were crossed off, except for one or two. It had been an unsuccessful afternoon. No one was talking, at least, no one was giving him any useful information. The Cucinellis had lost their son to the mysterious kidnappers, and all they could say is that he left to go get milk one evening and never came back. Same thing with the Bergerons, although Angel suspected their daughter was doing more than shopping. He was reasonably sure he'd seen her before at a soma-house. After some hunting, he was able to find her dealer, but he had nothing of use for him either. All he could say was that she stopped showing up to his house one day, and that he had no idea where she was. Mrs. Tranton was the most depressing visit of the evening. She cried throughout the entire interview, and her teenage daughter had to do all the talking. The only thing she could tell him was that Mr. Tranton left for work in the morning and just never came home. Angel tried and failed to talk to the families of the two Cintrón hitmen that went missing. They flat-out refused to talk, and Angel knew better than to press. He was considering going to Don Cintrón himself and asking him to share notes on the private investigation they were surely carrying out. Who knows, given that a son of the family had gone missing, they might be just desperate enough to talk to an outsider.

There didn't seem to be any kind of pattern when it came to demon disappearances. Demons were singled out and kidnapped at random, at different times of the day. The victims didn't seem to be of a particular type. It seemed like the demons were being taken whenever the kidnappers saw an opportunity to grab one. Didn't matter how dangerous that demon was, violent demons and peaceful demons alike were being kidnapped. Not for the first time, Angel wondered if the government was once again dabbling in demonology; he wondered if the Initiative had anything to do with this. He'd have to talk to his contacts in the military and find out.

He shoved his hands in his pockets and picked up the pace. If he got home early enough, he could make the calls he needed to make. All of a sudden, he stopped. He looked at the wall of the sewer, where someone had spray-painted a message.

"SHE IS COMING"

Angel was fairly certain this tag had something to do with the "worship her" tags he had been seeing all over town. Angel fished for his phone and took a picture, the flash illuminating the solid metal wall of the sewer. He frowned. Who was "she" and why should she be worshipped? Who was doing this? Was it one person, or was it many? It probably didn't matter, he thought. More than likely, the graffiti was probably the work of a lone schizophrenic, and thinking about what it means was probably a waste of time. But that didn't stop him from going through his phone archives and looking at all the photos of the other tags. A shiver went down his spine, for no reason at all.

* * *

Anne Hathaway stepped up to the podium. Backstage, Lorne wiped his sweaty brow with a silk handkerchief. Stop worrying, you goof, he told himself. Anne's a professional. She'll pull this off fine. She stood there, smiling, and waited for the applause to die down. "Welcome, to the first Annual Caritas Action Fund Dinner. I'm so glad so many of you could come!" She was applauded again. "I'm so proud to be here, at the first of what we hope will be many events for the Caritas Fund, and I'm so honored that Lorne asked me to give the keynote address tonight."

"A lot of people have asked me why I care so strongly about demon rights - why I've always been a supporter of diversity and inclusion of non-humans in our society. Well, my passion for diversity dates back to 1984, when I had my first encounter with a demon. When I was seven, I made a friend with a girl. Her name was Michelle. She was a little strange, but we hit it off right away, and we became best friends. It didn't last. One day, the illusion charm that she wore around her neck broke, and the whole class was finally able to see what Michelle actually looked like, under the human facade she wore so well. It turns out that Michelle wasn't actually the blonde, blue-eyed girl we had all become used to - she was actually green, scaly, and had a tail. It should be no surprise that Michelle was teased mercilessly by the kids in our class, but what really disturbed me was the reaction of our teacher. Instead of punishing the bullies, our teacher sent Michelle to the principal's office. Her parents came for her, and we never saw Michelle again.

"I've thought a lot about that day. About what I could have done differently. About what the school could have done differently. About how Michelle must have felt, being taken away from all her friends, simply because she was a different species than us. About how Michelle was forced to pretend to be something she wasn't, simply to get an education.

"I'm here tonight because I never want to see what happened to Michelle happen to another girl or boy. I'm here tonight because according to a recent UCLA survey, 60% of demons live below the poverty line. I'm here tonight because far too many of us have the false impression that all demons are dangerous and only want to kill human beings. I'm here tonight because despite all the evidence we have been given, some people out there refuse to even _believe_ that demons exist. I support the work that the Caritas Action Fund is doing because I want to make sure we stamp out bigotry against non-humans once and for all!"

The crowd burst into applause, and some in the audience stood up to give her a standing ovation. Lorne clasped his hands together and bounced on his toes. He could hardly contain his glee. Anne was _killing_ it. She had the audience wrapped around her little finger. And the news cameras were in the back, capturing every word. Anne's speech would certainly dominate tomorrow's news cycle.

Anne continued to speak, and Lorne looked out at audience. Allison had really done a marvelous job, he thought. There was a reason he had hired her as his personal assistant. This event was her baby, and man oh man, had she delivered. Danny Glover was here, as was Cameron Diaz and Daniel Day Lewis. Sid Ciraco, the famous director, was here, and had even pledged to include a few demon characters in his next film. And of course, their most prominent guest, Matthew McCounaghey, who'd just taken the brave step of coming out as a demon. They raised over four million from this event alone. With this kind of boost, they might be able to move into public service announcements on television, and away from flyer distribution. God bless Hollywood, thought Lorne.

Half the people here had been residents of Silverlake during the Event. Silverlake had been where Lorne found himself when Angel sent the L.A. to hell, and Silverlake is where he built up his fortress, guarding the neighborhood against the monsters and demons that wanted access to the human residents. Lorne had effectively become a demon lord, during the Event - a fact he tried not to play up, now that the Event was over. Still, he was proud of what he had accomplished during the city's ordeal - Silverlake was a peaceful island in a sea of death and destruction. Not a single bad thing happened to any residents of his neighborhood, so long as they stayed within the borders Lorne had drawn. And that was entirely Lorne's achievement. The friends he had gained during the Event - powerful Hollywood execs he never thought he'd be in the same room with before all this went down - they were friends for life. And they were all here, thought Lorne, his eyes watering. They were willing to back Lorne in his new endeavor, as repayment for the protection he had given them during the Event. It was so kind.

Anne wrapped up her speech, and received another standing ovation. She thanked the audience and walked off the stage. Lorne smiled and went to go join her at her table.

* * *

"Okay, for next week, I want you to read chapters two through four of the Levi-Strauss. And remember to come to class with some discussion questions. We'll be discussing Structuralism next week."

The class started to leave the lecture hall, talking loudly. Dawn put her notebook in her purse and tried not to notice as her classmates shot her furtive looks. It had been like this all week - people whispering and pointing at her every time she left her dorm. She wasn't free from it even in her own hall. Some jerk had posted cut-outs of the tabloid articles all over the dorm. More people knew her as "Connor's girlfriend" than knew her by her name. It was getting real old, and it had only just started. She made her way down to the podium, where Professor Brinkley was putting away his notes.

"Hi, Professor? I was hoping I could speak to you about some of the things you talked about in the lecture? I don't think I understand what you mean by cultural relativism."

Professor Brinkley nodded, absently. He reminded Dawn of Giles. He was young, probably only in his mid-thirties, yet he dressed like he was in his fifties. He spoke with a crisp British accent, and referred to students by their last names. He pushed his glasses up from where they had slipped, and continued to organize his notes. "Of course, of course," he muttered.

Dawn wasn't sure if he had heard her. "Uh… Sir?"

"Hmmm?" he asked, turning to her. "Oh yes, yes we can talk, of course," he said, looking at her for the first time. "Miss…"

"Oh, Summers. I'm Dawn Summers," Dawn filled in, awkwardly. She fiddled with the zipper on her purse.

"Miss Summers. If you would follow me, we can continue this discussion in my office, down the hallway."

"Great. So I don't think I understand what you meant when you said anthropologists use cultural relativism to study different cultures - isn't that something we're trying to avoid using? I've never heard that term used positively before."

They walked down the hallway together. "Ah, you see Miss Summers, you're thinking in terms of moral judgment, here. Those who disparage the idea of cultural relativism hate it because it seems to imply that custom can render certain abhorrent practices morally justified, simply because they're justified in tradition. But anthropologists are not here to make moral judgments about a practice people might engage in." They entered his office, and Dawn sat opposite from Professor Brinkley. "We're not here to tell the Kwomo people of New Guinea that they shouldn't engage in head-hunting. We're here simply to document the fact that yes, occasionally, this tribe does hunt the heads of their rivals."

"But you can't escape the fact that head-hunting is wrong," argued Dawn. "How can anyone be so objective? Should we excuse selling children, or not letting women drive, or whatever else other cultures do just because you say we should be 'respectful'?"

Professor Brinkley stared at Dawn, and chuckled. Dawn felt light-headed, she was so energized. She had a point and she would make her professor see her side of things.

"You obviously have some very strong opinions, young lady," said Professor Brinkley, smiling at her.

"Yes I do," said Dawn, staring back at him, as if challenging him to respond.

"Well. Let's take our anthropology glasses off for a second, let's stop being objective for a brief while. Let's actually evaluate these practices according to our moral standards. I'm sure we can agree on the fact that treating women as second class citizens is wrong, yes?"

"Yes," said Dawn, defiantly.

"And we agree that there are cultural norms in various Islamic societies that justify this kind of discriminatory treatment, yes?"

"Yes," said Dawn.

"Now, would you be surprised to hear that there are also cultural norms in these Islamic societies that empower women, that give women a voice and even leadership roles?"

"Uh," said Dawn, not knowing what to say.

Professor Brinkley nodded. "What would you say to the idea that these two classes of norms compete against each other in the marketplace of ideas in Saudi Arabia? That there is a dedicated movement of women who are actively fighting for the right to drive? Women who take their inspiration from Khadija, the Prophet's first wife, who was an independent businesswomen and much, much wealthier than Muhammad ever was?"

"I… guess that's… a good thing?" said Dawn, slowly.

"Yes it is. Here's the thing, Miss Summers; we can't really ever say that 'this culture is definitely bad' or 'this culture is definitely good'. Culture is multifaceted, culture is diverse. There is no one idea that is embraced entirely by everyone who belongs to a specific culture. There will be disagreement on everything. What you see as a norm that defines a culture is merely one side of an argument winning over another."

"Oh," said Dawn, completely surprised. She had never thought about it that way.

"Now," said Professor Brinkley, smiling. "Can I help you with anything else, Miss Summers?

"No, Í think that's everything," she said, subdued. She stood up and slung her purse over her shoulder. "Thanks, Professor," she said.

"Anytime."

As she turned to leave, she caught a glimpse of a book in the corner of her eye. It was sitting on the Professor's desk, unopened. It wasn't in English, but it was in a script that looked familiar. She paused, staring at it. She looked at her professor. He was watching her, warily. "Is this… Sumerian?" she asked, weakly.

"Yes, yes it is," said Professor Brinkley. He pushed his glasses up again.

"They publish books in Sumerian?"

"They publish this one in Sumerian," said the Professor, briskly. It was obvious he wanted her to leave, now. Dawn stood her ground.

"Is that…. is that a copy of the Akkadian Prophecy?" she asked.

Professor Brinkley paused, staring at her. "What do you know about the Akkadian Prophecy?" he asked, slowly.

"Just that it predicts the end of the world, that's all," she said, trying to keep her voice light.

"As most prophecies do," said the Professor. "But you already knew that, didn't you?"

"I did," said Dawn, nodding.

"Miss Summers," said Professor Brinkley. "Who are you?"

"I'm a Watcher-in-training," said Dawn, sinking back down on the chair.

"The Watchers no longer exist," said the Professor.

"They reformed," said Dawn. "They're less patriarchal now. The Watcher Organization is controlled by the Slayer Organization. Slayers keep Watchers in check."

"And your last name is Summers," said the Professor, realization dawning on his face. "I see."

"Well," said Dawn, awkwardly, standing up. "See you next week."

She was just about to leave when the Professor spoke up. "Wait."

She turned around. "Yes, Professor?"

"How would you like to be my research assistant?"

* * *

Angel pulled up to the mall, and leaped out of the car. He stepped over the yellow caution tape that sealed off the entrance, and flashed his fake badge at the police officer who tried to tell him to leave. After Kate gave him his little assignment, he had gotten back into the habit of listening to the police radio. He had listened all day today while he followed up on various leads, trying to find witnesses who could tell him what the kidnappers looked like. After hearing nothing relevant for days, he heard a report of a strange, almost ritualized crime scene at the Westgate Mall. The kicker was that the victim appeared to be non-human. That would have been enough for Angel to want to check it out, even if he hadn't been working on a case about missing demons.

He walked through the mall until he arrived at what was presumably the crime scene; there were police officers milling about and crime scene investigators taking samples and photographs. He entered the Neiman Marcus store, and flashed his badge to a number of cops, never showing it for more than a few seconds, not wanting to give away that it was a quality costume replica. He approached the body, and stood there, staring at it. It was grotesque; a corpse made to hold its own decapitated head, blood drenching the carpet, eyes bulging out of their sockets. Even in its dismembered state, Angel could tell that the corpse was that of a Plontak demon - male, by the looks of it. He crouched down to get a closer look. That face… had he seen it before? Still staying low to the ground, he drew his notes out of the pocket of his jacket, and flipped through them, looking for something. Finally, he held aloft a small picture of Mr. Tranton that his wife had given him, in hopes that it would help Angel locate the missing demon. It was a match.

Angel straightened up, and sighed. That was going to be a hard visit to make. Mrs. Tranton was already so devastated by her husband's disappearance that this, this would break her. But he knew he had to tell her - if he didn't, who would? Not like the police would go out of their way to inform the next of kin for a demon.

"Hey Bob, what do you suppose that means?" a cop asked another cop.

Angel looked towards where they were pointing and his eyes widened. On the wall behind the corpse, someone had spray painted "WORSHIP HER" and "SHE IS COMING" in large, capital letters. Angel's stomach clenched. He looked around and saw all the designer shoes this store had, some splattered with blood.

He was beginning to think he knew who "she" was.

Someone had done this for Cordelia.


End file.
